


Counting Bodies Like Sheep

by abeautifullie3



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural AU
Genre: ...and after all that a Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - Mob, Analingus/aka: Rimming/aka: Dean Eating the Fuck Outta Sammy's Ass, Badass!Boys Being – Well – Brothers...Who Fuck, Badass!Boys Falling In-love, Boys Raised Apart/Don't Know They're Brothers, Breath Play (Mild), Dark Themes and Depictions Equals Debatably Dark!fic, Dean Winchester Is A Closet Kinky MOFO- errr...BroFO, FBI Agent!Dean, Fast and Loose Legal – and Medical – Procedures, First Time, Gore (Minor), Graphic Sex, Graphic Violence, Homophobic Slurs (Minor), I Reiterate – AU - One In Which Jamaica Embraces the Rainbow...and Butt!Sex For All, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mild BDSM (no discipline and no S/M), Minor Character Death, Mob Boss!Sam, Non-Hunting AU, Object Insertion, Original Character Death(s), Passing Mention of Sounding, Passing Reference To Homophobia, References To Sam/OCs & Dean/OCs, Rough Sex, VERY Brief Sam/OC, Wincest Reverse Bang 2017, Wincest-AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abeautifullie3/pseuds/abeautifullie3
Summary: Sam D'Eboli is a mobster.  Special Agent Dean Winchester is assigned to take him down.  Dean's okay with that double entendre...until he isn't.  A connection that won't be denied, and secrets revealed, Dean's objective may no longer be the same as the FBI's.





	1. Part One - Poison Devils

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The story and Bon Jovi t-shirt, are mine. The boys, and all things canon, not mine. :::pouts:::
> 
> **Additional Author Notes:** Written for the 2017 Wincest_Reverse Bang on LiveJournal.  
>  Beta'd by framedhim, the Splendiferous. Chocolate and champagne shall most deservedly be bestowed upon her.  
>  Any tomatoes to be thrown shall be aimed directly at me, as any and all remaining mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> **Too long for the Tags, additional Warning &/or Enticement:::** Unless Your Kink Twists That Way (not shaming!), and You Squint Headache Inducingly Hard – No Underage Fapping Material In This One
> 
> Fic Title and Part Titles from the song::: Counting Bodies Like Sheep To the Rhythm of the War Drums by A Perfect Circle
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _I'm not into Mob!Stuffs. Wasn't even originally signed-up for this challenge. Yet, when I heard there was art left without writers, curiosity got the best of me. I immediately fell for the piece darklittleheart had submitted and rushed to sign-up and claim it!_
> 
> _My artist was so easy to work with, equally thoughtful and talented. Not only am I enamored with her original art, but the additional pieces she created are fantastic and I am thrilled to have them to adorn my fic!_  
>  Thank you, darklittleheart! I hope you receive the bounty of praise you deserve!!!  
>  [ Art Post Here ](http://darklittleheart.livejournal.com/2255.html)
> 
> _I still have no clue why the original art had been left unclaimed (noticing a decrease of fandom works in general, which makes me sad), and still think I was bonkers for attempting to challenge myself outside of my comfort zone with the subject matter, however I'm glad it was and that I did._
> 
> _At times both fun and frustrating, it was an adventure I'm happy I took. And knowing my artists enjoyed the story I wrote in attempt to do her art justice...damn well makes it all worth it!_  
>  I hope you, the readers, take pleasure from it as well. 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _♥ Comments are very appreciated and highly adored!!! Absolutely ALL Con-Crit is desired as well! ♥_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Original Posting [ HERE ](http://abeautifullie3.livejournal.com/114781.html) at my LiveJournal.
> 
>   
>    
>    
> 

 

**_Counting Bodies Like Sheep_ **

 

 

 

 

 

**Part One**

_**Poison Devils** _

 

 

 

     Sam had already eaten. A good night with perfect timing, greasy brown-paper-bag still lukewarm – meatball sub, waffle fries, and a side of slaw – likely an unclaimed take-out order. If you'd been on the streets long enough, you knew the places that did what they could – edible scraps, day-olds, and the occasional full meal sent back or never picked up – setting them just outside their rear doors rather than chuck it all into the dumpster.  
     Was a more guaranteed meal than panhandling or occasional pick-pocketing provided, besides which those monies could be better used for other necessities. Less demeaning than hooking, which Sam refuses to even consider an option anyway. Better than some shelter or church wanting to save him – Sam knows he's beyond saving. And yeah, sure he'd been guaranteed plenty to eat at most of his foster placements, but those came with a price too. Wasn't so much he didn't want to fit the molds they all tried to force him into, rather he was too broken to.  
     Sam shakes himself of thoughts that do him no good, goes back to his task at hand: shoes. His own now more duct tape than anything, and preferring not to dip into money he can put towards an actual bed and a hot shower for a night or two, dumpster diving it is.  
     Couple of ritzier secondhand shops generally keep him clothed. They save the nicer donations, trashing the rest despite still plenty of wear. Sam's set aside two shirts, a pair of jeans that'll maybe fit, and just has his hands around the first sneaker when he hears a car coming. He's grateful it turned down the alley the other end of the block, gives him time to slip down next to the dumpster and crouch low and tight.

     The black SUV comes to a stop next to the dumpster, front end directly in Sam's sight. He listens as two doors open, voices, "Pop the trunk." and then muffled screams and unintelligible pleading – sounds Sam was raised on.

     He probably knows better than most what's coming, doesn't so much as flinch at the muted _pop_. He is afraid though. Knows if they find him he has good reason to be.  
     He tucks in a little tighter, sends up a prayer though he doesn't believe there's anyone listening.

     "Trash'll be by in a couple hours, Boss, should we just dump him here?"

     No reply, simply indistinct sounds of movement...closer...closer... Black dress shoes polished to a reflective shine at the dumpster, and Sam's heart is rabbiting in his chest. Eyelids slamming shut at the heavy thud inside the makeshift metal coffin, and Sam's bracing himself when he hears the following low curse.

     Sam knew there was no one listening to his prayer.

     The shoulder of his jacket is being fisted up before Sam can even try to run.

     "Looks like we've got a problem here, Boss." Thug One lifts Sam so he's on tip-toe, shakes him a little for emphasis.

     "I got this," offers Thug Two, whipping out his gun and placing the muzzle to the center of Sam's forehead.

     Long and lanky ever-growing teenage body struggling pointlessly, Sam forces himself to still as he closes his eyes. Thinks about how he should've just let Eli kill him instead, years back, first time the sick fuck had forced a gun into his then small hands.

     "Hold up."

     Sam's eyes fly wide open, gaping as The Big Guy – maybe not in stature, but definitely in presence and command – steps forward and places a gloved hand on Thug Two's arm to lower it.

     "What's your name, kid?"

     "Sam. And I swear, man, don't give a shit about any of this. Sure as fuck not goin' to the cops."

     Head cocked, considering, the man finally nods. "You know, I believe you. Tell you what, kid, you want a job?"

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Going from certain death to a job offer from Tony – fuckin' – D'Eboli is a little disorienting, Sam not exactly sure how he wound up on one of the rear leather seats of the luxury SUV.

     Thug One is in the driver's seat, Thug Two riding shotgun. D'Eboli is next to Sam in the back, eyeing him like maybe Sam should think about taking his chances with the whole diving from a swiftly moving vehicle option. There is a certain intent missing from his stare though, the only thing keeping Sam's hand from reaching for the handle of the door.

     "What you doing on the streets, kid?"

     "Like you care?"

     "You hear me askin', don't you? You got fire, I can see that. Need to work on when, especially who, you use that smart mouth on though."

     Sam sighs, takes the reprimand. Probably double the amount of guns in the car as the three men, might be a good time to accept that particular lesson. "My folks, eh, the people who adopted me, went to prison a while back. Bounced around in the system awhile, got sick of it. Figured I could do better on my own."

     "And how's that working out for you? You trickin' yet?"

     "No," Sam growls. "Die first."

     "Too good for you, heh?" D'Eboli chuckles.

     Sam stares the man mocking him dead on, hazel eyes a kaleidoscope of steel. "People who adopted me were Eli and Meg Azazel."

     The heckling mirth comes to a halt but for one of the men, though the quick whisper to his ear has him equally silenced.

     "Fuck, kid."

     Sam shrugs, like it's not the huge deal he knows it is. Like it isn't something that can make an SUV full of mob guys squirm with unease.

     "How old are you? And don't lie. Lie to whoever the hell else you want, but never to me. Got it?"

     "Yeah, I got it," Sam grumbles. Guns and goons only have so much sway over angsty teenage attitude, especially when coming from someone as damaged as Sam. Still, he's less smart-ass more matter-of-fact when he offers, "Seventeen, next month."

     "And how long you been trying to make it on the streets?"

     "Little over a year, I guess."

     "You sick of it yet?"

     Sam straightens his spine, squares his wide yet too-bony shoulders. "Said I won't-"

     "And not asking you to."

     Sam is taken under wing – feathers coal black, tattered-broken-frayed though they are.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     It's nearly a year before Sam realizes he's meant to be more than a glorified errand boy.

     D'Eboli's wife doesn't want the kids going into the "family business." Much as he disagrees, he won't fight her on it. Still, it leaves Tony needing someone to take over his business when he retires – or finally takes a bullet to the brain.

     Sam's been on the listening end of enough rants to know what D'Eboli thinks of this nephew and that cousin's kid. As far as the man is concerned, not a one of them have the smarts or stamina to last a week on the streets – let alone long as Sam did. None of them have seen what Sam has, wouldn't have the stomach for certain _unpleasantries_ of the business.  
     D'Eboli also tells him it's a matter of trust. A blank statement, no explanation. Sam's not sure he knows what it says about either of them, how D'Eboli feels he can trust Sam more than his own family or those in his inner-circle.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Tony cements Sam's loyalty with a _gift_. Makes sure the news is on during dinner with the family, Sam by his side.

     "First up tonight, breaking news out of Preston County, West Virginia. Just two days after her husband was murdered in USP Florence High, located in Fremont County, Colorado, Meg Azazel was found dead in her cell in USP Hazelton. Both were serving multiple life sentences in the high-security United States Penitentiaries, convicted on multiple counts in a scandal that rocked a Nebraska community five years ago and made headlines around the nation.  
     "While having kept mostly to themselves on their forty-acre farm seemed odd to many locals in nearby areas, no one had suspected the horrifying truth about the couple: Eli and Meg Azazel at the center of a child pornography and human trafficking sting by the FBI. At least four adopted children, along with more than a dozen unidentified minors, were taken into Child Protective Custody at the time of the Azazel's arrest. Upon further investigation, the remains of over twenty children were discovered buried in the woods of their surrounding property.  
     "Foul play is suspected in both Eli and Meg Azazel's deaths, though investigating authorities hold little hope in finding who's behind the murders."

     Heads bowed, Tony's wife and kids sneak brief glances at Sam, Sam sitting as if frozen with his jaw clenched.

     A wave of Tony's hand, Silvia has the kids up from the table, partially eaten chops and scalloped potatoes abandoned as she hustles them from the dining room.

     Hitting the power button on the TV remote, Tony observes Sam, silence between them except for the audible grinding of Sam's teeth.

     Sam eventually speaks, his voice angry shards of glass, "They got off too easy."

     Tony nods, pushes back from the table and walks over to the wooden buffet, covered in assorted liquor bottles and ornate glass decanters. He's back a minute later, a tumbler of clear liquid set in front of Sam. "Drink it."

     The alcohol gets the barest of sniffs before Sam knocks it back in two large gulps, Tony at the ready with a bottle to refill it.

     Sitting back down with his own drink in hand, Tony looks Sam straight in the eyes. "They raped him. Bloody. Cut off his parts and choked him to death on them."

     Sam's got his second drink slammed in one go, drains Tony's as well when it's pushed in front of him.

     "She didn't get any better," Tony continues. "Plenty of ways to fuck a woman without a cock. Lot of damaging ways. Left her tied up and gagged, bled out by morning rounds."

     Sam wants to vomit, but he won't...not over them. No tears either, and if a couple escape as he looks away from Tony, they sure as fuck aren't for those pieces of shit. The strong hand clasping his shoulder is confirmation the other man knows it as well.  
     He'd been drunk when he'd opened up to Tony weeks prior. Blood spray still tacky where it blended into his dark maroon shirt. Tony's pride at Sam's _first_ was evident in the expensive meal served at his secluded booth in his favorite restaurant, the top-shelf gin flowing freely… … …

_"Your first time...known guys who went to their knees after, never developed the stomach for-"_

_"Wasn't my first," Sam mutters, head down and eyes focused on his fettuccine carbonara._

_The piece of steak making its way to Tony's mouth stops short, the man's mouth awkwardly agape before he closes it purposefully, fork settled back against his plate._

_Sam dares to cut a glance over the table, sees Tony with his head slightly cocked to the side, waiting. He sits up straighter with a sigh, tops off the tumbler of gin he's already drained three or four times (no one to dare ID him in the place) before he settles back against the high-backed booth with it._  
_"I was, maybe four, first time I saw one of the other kids killed," Sam offers, watches Tony nod solemnly and reach for his own drink. "Eight when I was the one forced to do it. Kickback put me on my ass, rolled over and threw up. Couldn't stop crying, no matter how much Eli told me to shut up. Finally hauled me up off the floor and punched me so hard I blacked out. Woke up later to some guy...well."_  
_Going to take another drink, Sam finds the glass drained, stares at the last few drops in the bottom before startling at the movement of Tony pushing the bottle in front of him. Sam takes it with a nod, fills his tumbler full._  
_"Most of the kids they just kidnapped. Don't even know why they risked adopting some of us, supposedly home-schooled those of us they had. We didn't go off the property, not for anything. Growing up to sex, violence, and death, none of us knew any better - not really."_  
_"By the time I was ten, was just another part of my life. Always me or them. Though...hesitated sometimes. Thought maybe, maybe I'd rather it_ **was** _me, you know? No more having to... But, always ended up letting my mind slip away. Blocked out the reality and imagined all the people I wished it was." Any number of nameless abusers flood to mind. A faceless blur of men, some women, touching him...hurting him. Even now he wishes it'd been them instead. Each and every last one._  
_Sam doesn't tell his mentor he envisioned someone else when he shot the guy in the warehouse mere hours ago. Doesn't figure he needs to._

_When Sam doesn't offer up any more, Tony finally asks, "And after they were put away, how did you-"_

_"End up on the streets?" Sam interrupts and finishes, takes another drink at Tony's nod._  
_Sam relates going into the system, the string of foster placements and facilities which followed. Gives Tony the CliffsNotes version, reiterating how being raised on sex and violence and humiliation he simply hadn't know any better. Escorted from more than one home by squad car, families left shocked and rattled by his behaviors. Took two years of the repeated outrage, horror, and disgust he elicited from one family to the next – along with mandatory therapy – for it all to finally click in his damaged mind._  
_Shell-shocked at first, then riddled with guilt, anger had come swiftly enough – Sam nothing but tall and lanky teenage fury. Hearing "lost cause" on repeat enough, hadn't been hard to believe it. Eventually, waiting to fuck up with every new placement seemed pointless, so he'd left._

 

     Yet another Azazel was put to an end the following week. Eighteen now, Sam _Azazel_ walked into the courthouse – Sam _D'Eboli_ walks back out.


	2. Part Two - To the Rhythm of the War Drums - Chapter One

**Part Two**

**_To the Rhythm of the War Drums_ **

**Chapter One**

 

_**15 Years Later** _

 

 

 

     "Yeah, big, bad boss-man, taking it like a bitch in heat. Just like one of your little whores."

     Vinny Fragale barely has time for the, "What th-" before his brains blow out the back of his newly gaping skull, body slumping and shoved _out_ and off with a disgusted grunt from beneath it and rolling limp onto the floor.

     "Gordon! Get some plastic and get the fuck in here!"

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     "We got another one, Sir."

     "Well fuck," FBI Director Victor Henriksen growls, glaring at the file freshly tossed onto his desk.

     Vincent Fragale. Mother says she hasn't seen him in three weeks – not like her son not to make it to Sunday dinner. Vinny's a good boy.

     Yeah, right.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Dean's barely dropped into the chair opposite Henriksen's desk when the folder is pushed in front of him. He gives it a cursory flip through before closing it with a snort. "Seriously? You guys haven't given up on him yet?"

     "Everyone makes a mistake eventually."

     "Great. So should I be asking who I pissed off to be put on this pointless waiting game? Because, come on, Henriksen, even if they could manage to nail him in Nebraska, D'Eboli's tie-ins here in Chicago are weak."

     "Actually, we've teamed up with the Omaha office. Both working on this for so long, neither of us cares who gets him on what – as long as he's behind bars. And, we already think we've caught a break," Henriksen offers. "A connection made to another investigation, strong enough we brought in a profiler."

     "A profiler?"

     "We needed help filling in some blanks."

     "Oh, this should be good."

     Ignoring the wisecrack, Henriksen takes another folder and starts pulling out photos and laying them out across his desk.

     Ten big thugs, all in a row.

     Dean's unimpressed, that is until the pictures keep coming – most black and whites, surveillance photos. He sits up, watching as Henriksen places each correlating image with those of the ten men – Sam D'Eboli with each one.  
     The similarities between the men doesn't go unnoticed by Dean. All of them, for lack of a better term, " _alphas._ " Big in stature – equal to or rivaling D'Eboli's own – all with a domineering presence. Neither does the body language escape him. The _familiarity_ between D'Eboli and the good majority of the men in the photos. He's certain it didn't get by Henriksen and his team either.  
     "They're all dead," it's not a question, though Dean still receives a wordless sound of confirmation.

     "We think there are more. Here and in Omaha over the last decade, still working on it though."

     "And what did the profiler have to say about it?" Dean's curiosity is genuinely piqued now.

     "They think it's how he gets his rocks off. Takes these dominant men as lovers or boyfriends, or whatever-the-fuck you want to call it, and keeps them until he breaks them – then disposes of them. Going by surveillance, some he's with for weeks or even months, others only a matter of days."

     "Huh," Dean mutters, easing back into his chair, "interesting theory."

     "You disagree?" Henriksen asks.

     "Not necessarily. Just an observation."

     "Well if you've got something better, Winchester, by all means..." Henriksen makes an exaggerated sweeping motion over the evidence on his desk before leaning back in his own seat.

     "Look, I get how bad you want this guy. Six years now he's been running the business and trying to make surrogate daddy proud, branching out in new and corrupt ways. Underage prostitution, putting a new drug out on the streets, expanding his territory."

     "You seem to know a lot about him."

     "I work for the FBI, I hear things. Funny that."

     Henriksen accepts Dean's snarky reply easily enough, continuing on with his plight, "With the new leads-"

     "'With the new leads' what exactly? I don't mean to be a dick, but this guy knows how to cover his ass. How many of these men are missing, with bodies that'll never turn up? And the corpses you do have, I'm willing to bet you don't have a damn bit of evidence on 'em. So you now know D'Eboli bats for his own team, maybe takes a liking to killing some of them for whatever reason. I don't see how-" Dean stops, finally catching a fucking clue as to why Henriksen called him in on this.  
     "So that's it then? While I may personally think it's pointless, still realize this is a huge case. And only reason I'm getting a crack at it is 'cause I'm a fag, a fairy." Dean doesn't miss the way Henriksen quickly averts his eyes. "Yeah, don't think I don't hear the jokes, all of the disgusted comments."

     "Look, Winchester. Not going to deny this plays a part, but I can promise you if your record didn't speak for itself, there's no way in hell we'd let you near this guy."

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Dean Winchester does not bottom.

     No, Daddy hadn't bad-touched him. Nor does he harbor any deep-seated homophobic issues. Any previous doubts to his orientation gone after a round of "Doctor" in the garage with Leah Hummel's brother Andy (rather than his usual explorations with Leah), came out as gay at eleven. No qualms about it thank-you-very-much, and dared anyone to give him shit for being open from that day on.  
Dean also holds no ill-conceived notions about all men who like to bottom being weak, needy, simpering subs. Which, as it happens, is a damn good thing for Dean. As much as it's dominating-claiming-thrusting hard and deep into a willing male body that really does it for him, meek or fragile isn't his type. And a world of no to bossy-bottom-divas. Dean likes his men self-assured, strong, a little rough around the edges with a desire to carry that over into sex, and confident in their submission to his dominant nature.  
     And if his innate preference for topping isn't enough, Dean's own ass simply isn't an erogenous zone. Touch beyond perfunctory necessity akin to a 'fingernails on a chalk board' response, and, well... Dean is as literal a tight ass as he is figuratively. Is clued in to his own body enough to realize no amount of prep or stretching could ever make it pleasurable.  
Furthermore, if any partner takes issue (indeed there have been a few rude fuckers), Dean won't think twice about tossing a guy naked onto the curb for trying to push for anything else.  
     No, while he loves spending hours appreciating the hell out of a fine male ass, Dean's own is off limits.

     He doesn't do women either. Except...when it's for the damn job.

     Cold beer hastily grabbed from the fridge, Dean drains the bottle in one long pull, slamming it on the counter with a loud, "Fuck!" before he goes into the cupboard for something stronger.  
Rum and tequila are for fun. Bourbon, relaxing. Vodka or gin...meh. Whiskey it is. The Old Potrero is tempting, but expensive on his salary, and shoved aside for 100-proof of Missouri Moseley's medicinal moonshine-whiskey.  
     Yeah, so, tight-assed didn't necessarily equate straight-laced. He could bend the rules. Turn a blind eye for the greater good. Still, Dean's totally that guy: at the window, drink in hand, yelling at the neighborhood kids to get the fuck off his lawn. Well, he would be...if he had a lawn.  
     Besides, Missouri's family. Old friend of his mother's, as well as Bobby's. Spent weeks, sometimes months, at her place as a kid. And it's not like she's running some huge operation out of the small hidden room in her Chicago family home – tunnels blocked off now from generations passed. Lot of history in those walls, and if she can make a modest living off of family tradition... Dean's not about to get hung-up on the legalities when she's a damn fine woman who's gone above and beyond for him over the years.

     He's too agitated to sit. Pours himself a good two- fuck it, four fingers from the mason jar and turns to lean against the kitchen counter, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Taking a drink, he clenches his teeth and hisses against it. Savors the burn as he thinks about declining the case – about the _real_ reason why he should.  
     Wasn't so much a lie when he told Henriksen he'd merely caught things about D'Eboli on the job. Wasn't the whole truth of it either. Not even close. Thing of it is, Dean _may_ have a slight obsession with the guy.  
     Name, and photo, turned up on a case he was working near ten years ago. Ended up there was no connection, yet Dean couldn't stop thinking about the younger man. Did some digging, not enough anyone would notice, and kept tabs short of raising question.  
     He can't say what the initial draw was – and still is – nor why or in what ways he found – and still finds – Sam fascinating. Grudgingly admits (to himself) the definite physical attraction there, though it wars with his revulsion at the ever growing list of D'Eboli's offenses.  
     The irony of it though, now, is intense. A decade spent hiding his fixation with a fucking mobster, and here is Henriksen giving him to Dean on a proverbial silver platter – potentially undercover as his boyfriend, no less.  
     Sure Dean has fantasized about Sam, not all that infrequently in fact. But never, not once, in a way in which the younger man's preferences seem to lie. And, equally, being involved in putting D'Eboli behind bars is not a scenario Dean has ever entertained.

     Draining his glass, Dean pours himself another. Yeah, he is well and truly fucked – possibly quite literally if he takes the case.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     It's rather fascinating really. Given a few days and no-hacking-required access, a group of the FBI's more creative desk jockeys can give birth to a new identity. Solid history, documents, a business, loft, and car. Welcome to the world Dean Remington.

     A mere hour and a half flight out of Chicago to his new temporary home in Omaha, from there it's simply a matter of 'right place at the right time.'


	3. Part Two - To the Rhythm of the War Drums - Chapter Two

**Part Two**

_**To the Rhythm of the War Drums** _

**Chapter Two**

 

 

 

     Lucy Blue Cafe. Little family run cafe and bakery, makes their own bread, assorted pastries and desserts, and traditional beignets fresh every morning. Sam D'Eboli is known to frequent the quaint corner cafe for the latter – along with a cup of chicory coffee. Makes sense, D'Eboli's notorious for nearly never missing a year down at Mardi Gras.

     It takes three days of Dean in holding pattern before he gets the green-light text: _Lucy's in the sky with diamonds_. Yeah, the guy they got him for surveillance is a nitwit. Thankfully, it only takes the once for Sam D'Eboli to take the bait.  
     Sweaty from a staged morning run (he fucking dares anyone to scoff, but he'll take yoga or a killer spin class over running any day), Dean "just _happens_ " to duck into Lucy Blue's right as D'Eboli is leaving. The unintended key words being: _right as_.  
     D'Eboli's aberrated green tea smoothie is all down the front of Dean's Metallica t-shirt, and yeah, Dean's damn good at his job and goes with it.

     "Oh shit, man! I am so, so sorry!" D'Eboli stammers, shock and apology genuine.

     Looking down at himself, Dean chuckles. "Well, could've been worse. Glad it's not seared pecs and only perky nipples."

     D'Eboli balks at first, then with a rapid blink of his eyes seems to really see the man in front of him beyond the bright green mess.

     Dean doesn't miss the way D'Eboli is suddenly giving him a thorough and lingering once-over. Doesn't think a blind person would miss it. Near tangible, as if it were Sam's large, strong hands gliding over Dean's body rather than his intense kaleidoscope-hued gaze alone.

     "I...uh, yeah. Me too," D'Eboli agrees. Gives his head a quick shake then clears his throat. "Let me pay for the cleaning bill."

     "Nah, man. Really, not a big deal. Just an old t-shirt, and believe me it's seen worse."

     "I feel terrible though, should've been watching where I was going, let me... Dinner."

     Dean cocks his head. "Dinner?"

     "Yeah. You like Italian?"

     Shrugging, Dean replies casually, "Pasta's good."

     "Excellent, um..." D'Eboli holds out his hand.

     Dean takes it, tries to ignore the skin-to-skin rush, the heady thrum in his head-chest-groin as they match firm grips. Watches Sam's pupils dilate and a faint flush lightly stain his cheeks. "Dean," he offers, breathy. "Dean Remington"

     "Sam D'Eboli. It's a pleasure."

     Hands releasing, Dean tries to compose himself. "Surprising, a little cold, but agreed...a pleasure."

     D'Eboli laughs lightly. "Tomorrow night then, seven o'clock? Silvio's. I have a table there."

     "'You have a table'," Dean repeats, eyebrow arched. Notes the cocky, self-assured grin in response. "Sure, okay, seven tomorrow night. It's...it's a date?"

     A slow nod, and D'Eboli snakes his tongue out, wets his lips. "Definitely."

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Sam smiles to himself, observes Dean coming through the front doors of Silvio's promptly at seven o'clock before being led back to the secluded table. The man had looked good in simple, sweat-drenched running clothes when he'd collided with Sam in the doorway of Lucy Blue Cafe earlier in the week. He looks even better in dark jeans that hug his muscular thighs, a pale blue button-down, and a navy blazer over shoulders broader than Sam's own. Sam's smile widens as he imagines how fucking good Dean will look stripped out of it all, knows his dimples are showing by the time he stands to greet him at the table.  
     "Punctual, I like that." It's solid muscle beneath Sam's fingertips, squeezing around Dean's bicep in greeting.

     Dean doesn't shy away from the added brush of lips against his stubbled cheek, accepts it with a slight flush and the hint of a smirk. "Would've been early," he offers, "but traffic was a bitch."

     Both men slide into their respective sides of the booth, ordering drinks and accepting menus for their perusal.

     Some easy, casual 'how's the weather?' exchanges between them, Dean excuses himself to the restroom.

     Waiting a minute, Sam follows.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Dean's at one of the urinals, just undoing his belt, as Sam enters the men's room. Glancing over out the corner of his eye, he nods. "You too?"

     Sam simply shakes his head, continues to stalk over until he's practically on top of the man. Can smell his cologne, his sweat, the faintest hint of urine – it's a nice restaurant, they keep the place clean.

     "Um, you know, I think I got this, Sam." Dean's obviously on guard now, though his eyes still startle wide when Sam grabs the back of his neck.

     Sam knows this could go wrong so many different ways, momentarily mourns the loss of future dates if it does. Still, he spins Dean around, shoving him into the nearest stall and slamming him against the metal dividing wall.

     "What the _fuck_ , man?!" Dean bucks against the weight pinning him, wrists twisting in the unyielding grip of Sam's hands.

     "Relax. Just need to check you out," Sam supplies, words spoken calmly against the shell of Dean's ear, "make sure you aren't broadcasting our evening – perhaps recording it as a memento."

     "' _Relax_ '? Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit," Dean growls, though he stills under Sam's questing hands. "Don't even know what the hell you're talking about...' _broadcasting_ ,' ' _recording_ '?"

     "We'll see." Fingers of one hand untucking Dean's shirt, Sam explores underneath the material, hands gliding over smooth skin and the subtle contours of his abdomen and chest. It's necessity, though he can't fool himself that he doesn't enjoy it. No trying to hide it from Dean either. The way Sam's plastered against him, Dean can't miss the stiffening cock against his ass – definitely not the way Sam rides the cleft of it as he undoes his jeans.

     "Sam," Dean warns.

     "Need to be thorough," Sam offers in reply, squatting down behind Dean and taking his jeans and boxer briefs with.

     "Fuck!" Dean bucks his hips in resistance – _not_ invitation – as Sam grips his glutes and spreads him open.

     Close enough to feel his breath bounce off of Dean's ass back onto his face, Sam hums in appreciation of the sight before him. "Nice. Very nice." Tightly furled hole tempting him to play, Sam knows this really isn't the time or place. Has something else in mind for the limited minutes he does have.  
     Releasing the finest pair of asscheeks he's ever had his hands on, Sam gives the right one a generous _smack_ – sharp sound echoing against the tiled bathroom walls...along with Dean's dangerous growl. The angry rumbling, the taught line of Dean's body, Sam knows it's a risk when he grabs hold of tapered hips and aggressively manhandles him around. He braces himself for a hit, can see clearly it's a near thing in the stormy glint of emerald eyes.  
     Dean's not hard. Isn't exactly soft either. Further from it when Sam leans in and places the tip of his tongue directly above trimmed pubes, wet line tracing up the soft trail of hair to his navel. The taste of soap, sweat, and Dean's skin on Sam's tongue, he leans back, closes his eyes and savors it as he shifts from his crouch to his knees. Eyes reopening, he continues the search, palms running over the bowed curve of Dean's legs – ankles to inner thighs, in turn, to finally rest easily along his hipbones.  
     One quick glance up, Dean's stare leery and resentful though not entirely lacking in a hint of anticipation and heat, Sam leans in to nuzzle his nose in the groove between groin and thigh.

     "Fuck, Sam."

     The words hold no admonishment, and Sam moves on to mouth at Dean's sac before he licks a stripe up his swiftly stiffening length – rewarded by the dull thud of dubious resignation when Dean's head thunks back against metal. Smile unapologetically arrogant, Sam proceeds to lave the tip of Dean's cock in spit. He watches him – eyes squeezed tightly closed, head rolling to and fro along the dividing wall – and revels in the man's confliction as he takes him between his lips.

     Closed eyes abruptly open wide, Dean looks down. There's a heated exchange of glances shared with Sam before he refocuses, eyes fixed to where his length glides easily – in and out, rhythmic seesaw of bliss – over Sam's reddening lips and into suctioning heat.

     His conquest toyed with long enough, Sam reverts back to his intent of 'quick and dirty.' Lets his saliva pool – wetter-sloppier-deeper – and hastens his pace while hollowing his cheeks. The broken noises Dean's making, the way the man's hips are eagerly rolling forward, only spur Sam on. More so even when he feels blunt fingers carding back through his hair, coaxing pressure against his scalp.  
     He turns his gaze upward, locks eyes with Dean's as the man tightly fists the dampening strands at the back of his head and holds Sam steady.  
     Sam's ready for it. Fucking wants it. Throat relaxing to accommodate every inch as Dean slams forward, he gives himself over to it – pulls out his own cock and strokes himself as furiously as Dean is thrusting into him.  
     It's mere moments and Dean is trying to ease back, Sam shaking his head as fervently as possible with a mouth full of cock.

     Questioning, Dean raises a brow, gives Sam a handful of seconds to change his mind. The barest of nods and Dean fists his fingers all the tighter in Sam's hair, other hand reaching up and over to grab hold of the dividing wall before he drives back down Sam's throat.

     Both hands clenching Dean's hips, Sam only encourages him harder-deeper-faster, eyes focused on the straining cords of his throat as he tips his head back and cums with a guttural shout. Sam swallows around Dean's cock, milks it for every drop while he shoots his own release onto the floor.  
     Listening as the combined sound of their heavy breaths fill the room, Sam tucks himself in and does up his slacks before he slowly rises from his knees.

     White-knuckled fingers uncurling from over the top of the dividing wall, Dean stares at Sam. The glare is back, an indignant scowl on his face.

     Snickering at the ridiculous pretense of Dean's attitude, Sam reaches out to help him dress – his hands smacked away none too lightly for the effort. He leans back against the opposite metal wall and grins, watching – only to be promptly stunned as Dean takes his softening cock in hand, aims for the toilet, and proceeds to relieve himself with Sam a few mere inches away and looking on.

     Finished, Dean's barely put himself back together before he's yanking the stall door open and storming out, "You know you're buying me the most expensive damn thing on the menu, right?" tossed over his shoulder.

     Sam laughs, hopes like hell this one lasts, and follows Dean out of the men's room.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     "So was that standard protocol for all of your first dates?" Dean asks, their waitress barely away from the table after bringing them the priciest bottle of wine on the menu.

     Chuckling, Sam shakes his head. "Actually...no. Usually leave a swift and methodic frisking to Gordon." His eyes briefly shift to the man sitting at the bar.

     Pushing aside his glass of untouched wine, Dean leans in and over the edge of the table. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

     "You don't know?" Sam takes a sip from his glass, lips curled smug around the rim.

     "No. Should I?"

     "Probably."

     Dean shoves back with a huff. "Look, I don't know... I don't normally... Fuck! I'm not that guy, alright? Like to think I have a little more self-respect than hooking up with men I've just met. That's not something I do, or enjoy."

     Setting his wine glass down, Sam smiles. "Really?" he asks, ever so casually.

     "Yeah, really."

     Sam leans forward a little, gives Dean a devilish smirk with dimples for horns. "I think your cum that served as my appetizer would prove otherwise."

     Dean grabs his glass of Gaja Gaia & Rey Chardonnay Langhe – $237 per bottle – and drains it in one go.

     The following silence between them is uneasy, though Sam counts it a win that Dean hasn't simply walked out. He can't read the man, something he finds equally unsettling and intriguing.  
     When their waitress brings their _actual_ appetizers, Sam tells her to forgo the whiskey Dean requests for a full bottle of Aberlour A’bunadh, along with two tumblers of ice, and gratefully watches some of Dean's tension ease at that. Sam also doesn't miss the way Dean looks at the bruschetta he's reaching for before halting momentarily – faint hint of a smile making his lips twitch. Sam can't keep back his chuckle, only laughing all the harder at Dean's grumbled, "Shut up," from behind a begrudging grin.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Not that Sam hasn't already had him checked out, he still enjoys coaxing Dean's life story from him: country boy trading the family business – farming – for big city life. Recently took over one of downtown's more popular bars, the owner looking to retire. Sam knows the place, it isn't in his territory. He's glad for that.

     "Alright, we're one bottle of wine and half a bottle of scotch down," Dean waggles the half-empty bottle of Highland single malt Scotch Whiskey in front of Sam, "and all we've done is talk about me. Tit for tat, man."

     "Not much to tell." It isn't completely a lie, not as such. Of course it's a true-crime bestseller waiting to be written, but Sam doesn't talk about his life. Thus, nothing to really tell.

     "Riiight," Dean draws out. "You're obviously someone important. And not just in your own mind. Regular guys, they don't go around with bodyguards, pat down their dates, or have waitstaff bring them anything they request without batting an eye. Politician? Wall Street tycoon? Come on, spill."

     "I'm a businessman," Sam offers, realization finally dawning that Dean really has no clue who – or what – he is. He knows the man is new to the area, but still... Sam's never been with someone (more than a hookup with a stranger) who didn't know who he was...what he did. He's not fooling himself, realizes there's no way Dean won't discover it eventually, yet... Sam's a bit at a loss how to proceed. If he even should, as opposed to politely ending the date and leaving the man to his less complicated – and potentially less risky – ignorance.

     "Nope, not buying it. Or at least it's not that simple. Honestly, Sam, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were some big-time mob boss or something." Dean laughs off his own suggestion, smiling as he takes another bite of his linguine in clam sauce – with an added extra _cha-ching_ of shaved truffles.

     Sam believes Dean truly meant it as a joke. Has no clue he nailed it. Again, he comes back around to Dean will find out the truth one way or another – likely sooner rather than later with newly owning a bar. If Sam intends to pursue this, which he really, truly does...  
     Aware of Dean's stare becoming more pointed the longer he keeps from laughing or offering a quip in return, Sam finally cocks his head and shrugs, gives Dean a resigned smile.

     Eyes suddenly huge green orbs, Dean promptly chokes on his pasta.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Several firm slaps on the back – and one piece of clam hocked-up into a napkin – later, Sam is still rubbing soothing circles against a red-faced Dean's back. "Another drink of water?"

     "No, really, I'm good. Thanks."

     "For saving your life? Or making you choke in the first place?"

     "Um, we'll go with the first one."

     "In that case, you're welcome."


	4. Part Two - To the Rhythm of the War Drums - Chapter Three

**Part Two**

**_To the Rhythm of the War Drums_ **

**Chapter Three**

 

 

 

     Another dinner date. Dinner and a movie. An evening at the symphony. One impromptu visit to Dean's establishment, the man turning over the bar to a curvy redhead with sparkling blue eyes so he can give Sam the grand tour – last stop the storage room, where they'd made-out like a couple of sneaky teenagers for a good fifteen minutes. And now, a local street fest. Six dates and Dean wasn't joking about not being _that_ kind of a guy.   
     After the 'happy-ending pat down' in the bathroom, Sam hadn't even gotten so much as a goodnight kiss until after their third date. At the rate they've been going, he'd honestly been thrown when Dean had all but attacked him amid the stacked boxes of liquor, napkins, glasses, and the like. Not that Sam's complaining. Except maybe he kind of is, replete with envy as he watches Dean wrap his lips around the end of a corn dog.  
     Sam D'Eboli is used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. What he wants is Dean Remington in his bed, and he wanted it six dates ago.

     "Want a bite?" Dean smiles, licks a smear of mustard from the corner of his mouth while he offers up the standard festival treat to Sam.

     Opening his mouth to decline, Sam changes his mind, leans forward and chomps off the better half of the remaining corn dog.

     Face falling, Dean looks genuinely stricken, wide eyes shifting back and forth between Sam, with his stuffed cheeks, and the meager morsel he's been left with on a now mostly bare stick. "Dude!"

     Sam chews quickly and swallows, can't keep from laughing as he drapes an arm around Dean's shoulders. "Come on, I'll buy you another one."

     Making their way through the crowds of people, Dean periodically casts a glance behind them – can't seem to help himself, laughing heartily every time he turns back from looking at Gordon and two other men, all conspicuous in their black suits, trailing along. Dean in his black Zeppelin tee and khaki cargo shorts, and even Sam dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, blend in. Sam's men, do not.  
     It's yet another matter Sam is complaining about, yet wonders if he should be. Who he is, what he does, beyond Dean's words during their first dinner date – _Sam's palm still on his back, color finally returning to normal, Dean shifts to more easily meet Sam's eyes. "If what you're telling me is the truth," he pauses, waits for a denial that doesn't come before continuing on, "then going by what I know from movies, which is all I know, that's supposed to make you a bad guy, I guess. But, the movies don't always get it right, right? So maybe... Maybe when it comes to you, um, doing what you do, if I don't ask and you don't tell, I can decide for myself what kind of a guy you are – outside all of that."_ – they hadn't talked about it. Not once. Dean simply taking it or, rather, more often dismissing it with no more than a shrug, shake of his head, or even – case in point – a laugh when that part of Sam's world was made obvious.

     They continue to wind their way amid the throngs of both people and booths, stomachs stuffed with pulled-pork sandwiches and slaw, pleasantly buzzed on endless samplings of local craft brews and taking in a steady stream of bands, performers, and exhibits.

     Dusk falling, though the streets are far from dark with all the strings of lights, Dean leans back against Sam – hips in seductive rhythm with the gritty rifts of a blues guitar. "If I remember correctly, your loft is only a few blocks from here, right?"

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Sam has Dean spun around and pinned to the back of his front door just as soon as he has it slammed shut, mouth punishing and ravenous – claiming those plush _fucking lips_ that've been taunting him all night. Pulling back, the bottom one still caught between his teeth, he pulls, worries at it just shy of breaking the skin, then lets it go with a filthy smirk. He thumbs the reddened swell. "Wanna see 'em wrapped around my cock."

     With a lewd grin, Dean's grabbing his face and yanking him back in, sure and strong hands taking control as he tips Sam's head at will to better devour his mouth. Tongue thrusting in, demanding, he curls it around Sam's, plays the tip along the ridges on the top of his mouth before he relents with a mumbled, "Happily," against his lips.  
     Though his green eyes narrow, and there's a minute tick of his jaw at Sam twisting the neck of his t-shirt up in a tight fist, Dean willingly goes where he's led towards the bedroom.

     First with the stupid corn dog, then thoughtlessly parting for one bottle of brew after the next, Sam's near crazed in his obsession with Dean's lips. Barely makes it across the open living area and to the hallway before he seeks them out again, Dean obliging as the man's deft fingers free Sam of his button-down – light blue cotton discarded onto the floor the start to a trail of clothing leading to the California-king.  
     He stands there at the end of the bed, prideful smirk growing at the way Dean's eyes are drinking him in as he sheds his navy boxer-briefs. He knows he looks good. Works hard to keep his exceptionally tall frame lean yet muscled. Knows his proportionate cock is impressive too, even without Dean ogling it – the man's pupils blown, merely a sliver of crystalline green left around the edges.  
     Hand placed against Dean's shoulder, Sam's taken aback by the negating shake of his head as he attempts to guide him to his knees.

     "No." There's no ire in Dean's tone, only calm command, just as that of his direction as he takes Sam in hand and arranges him to face the end of the bed. "Stay."

     Not accustomed to being the one taking orders, Sam finds himself obeying regardless – curiosity too piqued not to. Carefully watching Dean's every move, Sam tracks the man as he climbs onto the bed and proceeds to roll onto his broad and muscled back. Sam doesn't even try to hold back his groan, Dean looking up at him with a cocky grin before resting his head to tip back over the edge of the mattress.

     "Been awhile," Dean offers from upside-down, "and you're..." His stare is blatantly fixed on Sam's extensive length, tongue snaking out over those _fucking lips_ and making them glisten. "Yeah," he huffs, low and hungry, gaze shifting to catch Sam's as he reaches back and grabs him by the hips.

     Sam gets it. Thrills a little over no other words being necessary between them, it's clear in his eyes and his dominant hold: Dean is in control.  
     Sure grasp guiding him, Sam moves forward until the underside of his cock brushes against the slope of Dean's nose and hot moist air exhales over the tip.

     Dean tilts back, nuzzles at Sam's scrotum as if he's scenting him and proceeds to suck and mouth wetly at the sensitive pouch and its contents.

     His head falling forward, Sam releases a drawn out and gritty sigh as he watches a blurt of pre-cum escape his slit and make its way down his shaft. Sliding down further, it mixes with Dean's saliva, the man catching the taste and following the trail up until he's pursing those _fucking lips_ against the head from an awkward angle.  
     Eager to oblige, Sam bends his shaft to easier accommodate Dean's pursuit. Cock in hand, he runs the tip along plush and rose-hued flesh, paints those _fucking lips_ until they're coated in an iridescent sheen.

     Dean doesn't lick it off. Stares up at Sam knowingly and opens his glistening and adorned mouth, tightens his hold on slender hips and doesn't have to wait but a second for Sam to take the cue.

     Sam slides inside and it's even better than he imagined – plush give of silky-smooth flesh as he glides over those _fucking lips_. He watches the first couple inches disappear from sight before his eyelids flutter closed, senses keenly aware of warm, wet suction welcoming him, and the grip guiding him there.

     Pulling him in closer, deeper, Dean pauses when the head of Sam's cock touches the back of his throat. Nostrils flaring, he takes a deep breath, another, barest hint of blunt nails sinking into the meat of Sam's ass, and Dean swallows.

     "Oh fuck, Dean."

     Every inch, down his gullet, Dean readily takes it.

     Snug doesn't begin to cover it, Sam's eyes practically rolling back into his head, and he almost misses the slight and awkward nod Dean gives him – more noticeable the fingernails digging deeper into his flesh. "You sure?" The words come harsh, panted – garner him a stinging slap against his rump. He still starts tentatively, finds a rhythm, lets it build slow and steady until he's jackhammering down Dean's accommodating throat.  
     Too soon, he stills. Full length nestled all the way inside – sac pressed snug against Dean's nose, tight enough there's a niggle in the back of his mind if the man can even breath – and Sam cums, hoarse shout of Dean's name as convulsive swallowing milks him of his release.  
     Dazed, Sam still takes the hint – palms pressing back against the front of his hipbones – and withdraws his softening cock with a content sigh.

     Dean flips over onto his stomach and pushes to his knees, casually licks a streak of cum from the corner of his mouth though Sam can read the hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "So, uh, do mob kingpins return the favor, or are we done here?" He's already reaching into his boxers, wrapping his fingers around his own turgid length.

     "I don't know," Sam begins to question, "are we?" Eyes never leaving Dean's, he strides over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand. Digs inside and easily finds what he's searching for without even a glance – casually tosses the lube and condoms towards Dean before languidly sprawling atop the bed and spreading his legs in obvious invitation.

     It's almost comical the way Dean's eyebrows shoot up.

     "You got a problem with this?" Sam knows his tone's defensive.

     "Fuck hell no," Dean growls, swiping the lube up into his hand before practically diving – belly-flop against the mattress – between Sam's thighs.

     Sam startles at his own bark of laughter. Dean grinning up at him – for a fleeting moment looking all of five-years-old – has something warm fluttering in his chest before he's distracted by his legs being manhandled over Dean's wide shoulders – _fucking lips_ against his hole.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     "How did it go?"

     "Well, I'm covered in hickeys."

     "Things I don't need to know, Winchester."

     "Exactly. Which is why I skipped the mics in the bedroom and bathroom. Rest of the loft is open living area, bug I put under the end table should pick everything up."

     "Guess we'll have to manage without any bedroom confessions."

     "Just let me do my fucking job, Henriksen."

     Dean ends the call.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Sex finally in play, and Sam wants more. Only been two days since he's seen Dean, and he's craving it like a drug. _Needs_ it. Can't fucking _think_! Popped Johnny Mulligan when a kneecap probably would've sufficed. No great loss though. Sure the wife and kids he'd been beating for years would thank him.  
     Back in the SUV, he pulls out his cell to call Dean. Dean who's all confident dominance. No cocky bravado, doesn't _think_ he knows what he's doing, he simply does. Obviously knows what he likes too – how to best claim his own pleasure while making sure his partner is well satisfied. Best fuck Sam's had in years – possibly ever if he could think clear enough to recall.

     Music and chatter and clinking glass greet Sam ahead of Dean's voice. "Hey, Sam, live-band tonight, gettin' slammed here until the ten o'clock cavalry arrives. What's up?"

     "Late dinner, night in at my place after they relieve you?"

     "Eleven-ish too late?"

     "No."

     "Sounds good then."

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Dinner is half-eaten and forgotten. Well, more accurately, it's all over the floor. Nearly unrecognizable splatters and clumps of Szechuan and sushi amid broken pieces of ceramic and glass. The table's been put to better use: Dean, bare flesh-against-flesh beneath Sam, spread out over the highly glossed maple and walnut marquetry surface.

     Tongues warring, hints of Yellowtail Carpaccio and Spicy Twin Salmon Roll mingling, Sam grips and strokes Dean's cock, huge palm gliding down and easily cupping his tight sac and kneading. The barest touch to his perineum, and the line of tension between Dean's brows doesn't go unnoticed. Sam simply smiles, bites along his jaw before he's startling Dean by standing up and pulling him off the table.  
     Dean's staring at him confused, questioning, as Sam turns them. All-out groans when Sam lays himself on the table in answer and parts his thighs for Dean to slot between.  
     "Already prepped, just fuck me."

     Drinking him in, like he's better than any meal the table could ever host, Dean's eyes roam over every inch of naked skin before he's attacking Sam's mouth in a bruising kiss – fingers questing, thrusting, just to be sure.

     "Satisfied?" Sam asks.

     That garners him a sly smirk in reply – strong hands suddenly beneath his thighs, pushing back until his knees are practically at his ears. Dean slams inside – one powerful thrust – finds and keeps a punishing rhythm until Sam's screaming out Dean's name and shooting all over his own stomach and chest.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     They're lying on the floor. Sticky with sweat and tacky with drying cum in their postcoital satiety, sharing bites of a rescued egg roll.

     "You thought I'd want to top," it's not a question.

     Dean answers anyway, "I did."

     "And yet, you didn't break things off. Even brought sex into play when I'm pretty sure you don't like to bottom. Should I be suspicious?" Sam can feel Dean tense, though he relaxes quickly enough, thumb playing over a nipple where he's nestled against Sam's chest.

     "Don't know if you've looked in a mirror lately, but you're kind of hot as hell."

     Sam snorts. He realizes he's attractive, also knows Dean well enough to understand the man needs more than pleasant aesthetics.

     "Okay, honestly? Figured I'd enjoy what I could, accept the rest. Just...wanted you any way I could get you."

     "You say that like you know me."

     "I do."

     It's Sam's turn to tense at the candid admission.

     "In a way."

     And he eases, waits to hear the rest he's sure is coming.

     "Look, bars are gossip mills. Didn't bother to suss out what was what before, but after I found out what you... I hear things. Plenty. Catch snatches of the news here and there. Yet, in contrast, there's the Sam I've gotten to know over these last few weeks." Dean pushes up, gazes into Sam's eyes and then swiftly stands from the floor – hand held out to Sam.

     Sam takes it, lets Dean pull him up and lead him to the bedroom and shove him back against the door frame.

     Leaning in close, tight, barely an inch between them, Dean brushes back a strand of hair from Sam's forehead. "Fuckin' hate the things you do, Sam, but you... I can't explain..."

     Sam's being kissed. So damn gentle and it's like his chest is cracked wide open, heart exposed. This isn't like him. At all. But he can't fight it. Doesn't fight being staunchly guided across the room either, firm palm centered against his chest and pushing him onto the bed. Practically keens when Dean opens him up again, a near reverence to it the way he locks eyes with Sam as he slowly fits himself back inside. There's no disrespect when Dean flips him over and puts him on all fours, grip tight enough on his hips Sam welcomes the bruises it will leave. Nothing demeaning to it, Dean simply exerting natural dominance in the way he eventually moves a hand loose around Sam's throat, guiding him up and back until the sweat along his spine is mingling with the sheen of perspiration covering Dean's chest – cock pounding relentlessly against just the right spot inside. No words of humiliation, only, "So fuckin' good for me," breathed against the shell of his ear.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Sam's more of a "wham-bam-get the fuck outta my bed, man" kind of guy, even with the few longish-term relationships he's had. Figures he should probably examine why he has yet to do so with Dean, why he's currently playing the role of 'little spoon' and twining his fingers with those splayed low across his stomach. Yeah, maybe he should – but he's not.  
     A near perfectly sculpted nose – slightly askew along the bridge, likely from a previous break – nuzzles against the nape of his neck, sends shivers down Sam's spine and elicits a faint twitch of his twice-spent cock.

     "What'cha thinkin'?"

     Sam huffs, swallows. "For the record, I don't top. If you hadn't realized." There's a slight squeeze of his fingers, a kiss to the top of his spine. "Not like I can't, and maybe once in a blue moon... Not my preference though."

     Dean mutters against Sam's skin, "Nothing wrong with that."

     "Right, yeah, I know. And...and you seem to know, but... Lot of guys, they take it as a show of weakness. As if it gives them license to...to belittle and humiliate."

     Rising up, propped on the elbow beneath him, Dean untwines his fingers from Sam's. Gently placing the freed digits under Sam's chin, he coaxes his face around, gazes into his eyes and lightly brushes a kiss to his lips. "I will never degrade you."

     Sam rolls over fully, faces Dean, leg draping – claiming – over the other man's hip.

     Grabbing hold of Sam's thigh, Dean hitches it up higher, draws him in closer, cocks rousing where they're pressed snug together. "You are strong, confident, and your sexual inclinations don't change that. Neither does a desire to be dominated sometimes – to whatever extent. Domination doesn't equal degradation." Dean runs his thumb over the slight furrow in Sam's brow. "Yeah, maybe some people like that. The whole demeaning thing. Not me. Wouldn't tolerate being on the receiving end, and don't care to dole it out either."

     "Where the hell have you been all of my life?" Sam's instantly cringing at how damn cheesy he sounded. Wishes he could take it back until he sees the crinkles around Dean's eyes.

     Dean's chuckling. Offers, "Milking cows," in reply before he leans in and claims Sam's smiling lips.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     "Right now, Winchester, seriously wishing we'd forgone mics altogether."

     "Fuck off, Henriksen. And – for the record – your profilers got it wrong."

     "What the hell's _that_ suppo-"

     Dean ends the call.


	5. Part Three - They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do - Chapter One

**Part Three**

_**They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do** _

**Chapter One**

 

 

 

     "Heard we finally got a judge to sign-off on those juvenile records."

     "Yeah, Turner brought 'em by. Just sitting down now to go over them."

     "Still don't know why we went to all the damn trouble. All the red tape we had to cut through. Who the hell cares where he came from? Know he fell in wrong with D'Eboli when he was a teen, took to it like he was born to it. Guy's a piece of shit, not sure why that's not enough for you, Winchester."

     "Let's just say I like to be thorough. You got a problem with that, Henriksen?"

     "Hey, long as you get something on this murdering son of a bitch, all that matters to me."

     Ending the call, Dean drops onto the sofa.

 _He_ cares. _He_ needs to understand. A justifiable explanation why... Correlating the Sam D'Eboli in the stacks of FBI files with the Sam he's swiftly – and frighteningly – falling for, he can't do it.  
     Starting from the beginning – of Sam's life that is – seemed like Dean's best shot, and that had meant putting in a call for records which, frankly, he's at a loss as to why no one else sought them out...except he's really not. D'Eboli's the "bad guy." Most times, the "good guys" couldn't care less how the "bad guys" got that way. However, when it comes to this case, _to Sam_ , Dean is intent on finding a reason.  
     Given that, not sure why he's putting this off – ignored Rufus's repeated pointed stares, eyes shifting between Dean and the set-aside envelope, the entire two hours he kept the fellow agent and family friend around to shoot the shit over pizza and beers – but he can't procrastinate any longer.  
     Dean runs his finger over the name on the file he finally has out on top of the coffee table. Has to push his palm against the zipper of his jeans with only the first photo inside: black and white image; door held open by an ever-present Gordon as a then eighteen-year-old Sam follows Tony D'Eboli into a restaurant; dark suit cut perfectly to widening shoulders, a tapered waist, and lean legs. Can't help thinking what it's like to have the matured version of those mile-long limbs wrapped tight around his back, heels digging into his ass. Dean arches up into the pressure of his hand – just once – brief hint of sweet friction before he settles, drains his glass of Jack and splashes more over barely melted ice. Another sip and he gets back to the new file.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     At the end of documents spanning fourteen years in reverse of a system that failed Sam, including a decade of abuse – Dean's stomach tied up in knots at the atrocity of it all – he finds the slim, brown sealed file. Wonders how the hell Rufus managed... Doesn't matter, a quick swipe from his pocket knife and the records are unsealed. The trepidation is palpable. He attributes it to how the information was never meant to be seen, attempts to dismiss the unease. Another gulp of fortification and glass still in hand, Dean opens the file… … …

     The tumbler slips from his fingers to the floor, amber and ice spilling out onto the carpet.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     The instant the shock begins to release its icy grip, Dean is up and running for the bathroom. He doesn't make it. Trail of sick leading to where he drops to his knees and clutches the toilet's ceramic rim, heaving out his horror.  
     The scars. All the fucking marks littering Sam's body that he's never offered an explanation for, and Dean's always known better than to ask...  
     Choked sobs mingle with the retching until not even bile is left, and Dean crumples backwards onto the floor – cold tiles beneath his cheek where he lies there and lets the tears come.

     Nearly half-an-hour goes by before he can pick himself up off the floor. Dean flushes the toilet, can barely look at himself in the mirror when he steps over in front of the sink. His actions are mechanical as he washes his face and swishes around the mouthwash, the same cursory attention given to cleaning up his sick.  
     Changing his shirt, gathering up the files, and snatching up his keys, Dean's nearly numb to everything but his single-minded intent as he hits the road.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Dean can't stop thinking of his own childhood. No roots, no stability, town after town with an emotionally crippled and alcoholic father, a life Dean never would have wished on any kid, and yet knowing the alternative...Sam should've been there. All the kid had suffered, the hell he'd been relinquished to, Sam should've _fucking_ been there. Growing up with Dean, even with the shit father John was. Dean would've looked out for and protected his baby brother. And after Dad... There'd been Bobby. Bobby, who would have… … …

     Dean presses his foot to the accelerator all the harder.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Bobby's there, on the back porch, likely heard the commotion of Dean speeding down the gravel drive before slamming on the breaks with a spray of rocks and dirt. He doesn't get a chance to offer a surprised greeting, not with the way Dean is storming up to him – stopping short of grabbing the man by his flannel shirt.

     Dean's harsh voice echos around them, bouncing off the garage, cars, and piles of parts and scrap metal. "Did you know? Did you _fucking_ know?!"

     Expression momentarily caught up in startled dismay, Bobby's face pales and falls as he staggers back, hand reaching out for the porch side-rail to steady himself.

     "Bobby?!" Dean snaps, demanding a reply.

     "I... No. No, son, I didn't. Had my hunches, but that's all I had. Even when your daddy told me I was sick in the head for thinkin'... For asking him... I still tried. Looked. There was nothing, Dean. Not a damned trace."

     Dean's lips are a tight line of white, but he still nods – willingly accepts what Bobby's told him.

     "Is he...is he alright?"

     "No. But he will be."

_**~ ~ ~** _

     It's been roughly six hours since he read the file when Dean shows up at the loft unannounced. Waves off the goon squad – three of Sam's men parked out front in a black SUV, scrambling with their take-out to exit the vehicle before they realize who the late-night guest is.  
     He presses the buzzer, frantic and unnecessarily repetitive, until a pissed-off Sam is yelling, "Who the fuck is it?" through the intercom.  
     A curt, "It's me, Dean." gains him entry, and he's too wound up to wait for the elevator but it's eight fucking flights up... Various buttons get the same abuse the buzzer had, Dean fidgeting and drumming a tuneless beat against his thighs until the doors open across from a waiting Sam.  
     He brushes by Sam, offers a clipped, "We need to talk," as he enters the loft.

**_~ ~ ~_ **

     "Well hello to you too," Sam grumbles, watching a silent and brooding Dean stalk across his living space and into the dining area – tense shoulders and a stiff spine turned to him where Dean stops in front of the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. He sighs. Sam knew this was coming, Dean eventually hearing something he couldn't let slide, learning of a _transgression_ of Sam's he simply couldn't ignore and dismiss.  
     "Would it help if I told you that since I took over the business, I've never killed an innocent man?"

     Dean whips around, eyes wide and clearly shocked by Sam's confessed words.

     "Every last one of them, Dean," Sam goes on, "I can swear to you was guilty of one thing or another. Murder, rape, assault, money laundering, theft. Men who beat their wives and kids, child molesters, the list goes on. And sure, you could argue maybe some of the crimes didn't warrant a death sentence, but...none of them were good men."

     Wordlessly staring at Sam, Dean scrubs his hand over his mouth and jaw, takes a moment to finally speak. "You can't... Shit, Sam, you can't just play at judge, jury, and executioner. It's not right. You... _Fuck_ ," Dean hisses low, "that's not even-"

     "What else then, Dean? Is it the prostitution? Because maybe you don't realize it, but those kids out there on the streets? They're not going to go away, can't take in the endless number of them and save 'em all. I do the best I can, protect the ones I'm able to. Shelter, food, clothing, medical care, my name and guys making sure they're not roughed up. Yeah I take a cut, not that I see most of it. Covers their care, and part I invest – for them. Enough of a little nest egg, I take it and give them an out. Bad things happen, kids do stupid shit, I can't keep them all alive and out the other end of it to something better – but I try."

     Dean's gaping at Sam like he doesn't know him – in large, he doesn't. Arms crossing and folding over his chest defensively, Dean looks away. "What about Andromeda?" he murmurs. The words are almost inaudible, have Dean quickly grimacing and shaking his head as though he regrets the question passing his lips.

     "You mean the drug you never hear of any fatalities from when used on its own? No accidents, people going mental. The one the authorities lie to the public about – sworn to silence and hiding the truth?"

     "What the hell are you talking about?"

     "It's an all-natural high, Dean. Sure, some people may react to it just like with peanuts or bee stings, but it's not the big-bad-killer drug everyone makes it out to be. Unless a bunch of twisted assholes go cutting it with something else, it's pure and natural."

     "That's... Holy shit, that's why you took out Ruby and her crew!"

     Sam simply shrugs, offers up a smug grin.

     Dean suddenly begins to pale, a peculiar look of stricken realization marring his handsome and rugged features.

     Smirk giving way to a scowl, Sam realizes he's missing something. Dean's expression, it's too... The man's last words finally click. Sam's breath catches before he hisses low and dangerous, "How-"

     "Shut up, Sam! Just shut the hell up!"

     The outburst takes Sam aback, silences him though he's still alert, knows something is wrong. Very, very wrong if Dean's further rage is any indication.

     "Shit, shit, mother-fuckin'- SHIT!" Dean's gone from wane to infuriated crimson, eyes scrunched shut and balled-up fists slamming repeatedly against his thighs. Eyes opening suddenly, bright green peering at Sam, he raises a single finger to pursed lips.

     Sam's spine goes straight and rigid, eyes glaring back and narrowing to seething slits.

     "Just...just give me a damn minute to process some of this before you throw any more at me." Dean points to the stereo system. "Can you do that, Sam?"

     Jaw clenching, Sam adjusts his neck and rolls his shoulders. He may be confused, but he's not stupid. "Sure, Dean," he bites out, footsteps precise as he walks over to the entertainment center housing a collection of prized electronics. "I can do that. I'll just put on some music, fix myself a drink, while you have your little crisis of conscience meltdown."

     A loud, pounding rhythm from Kaleo fills the space around the two men, filters further into every room of the spacious loft through well-appointed speakers.

     Storming back across the room, Sam stops short of the dining table as Dean tosses the damning item onto the sleek wood surface. He stares unblinking, can't help remembering how Dean had fucked him not even a week ago, right there, right where the identifying badge now lies: FBI, Special Agent Dean Winchester.

     "Sam." It's barely a whisper over the music.

     Ignoring the pained expression on Dean's face, Sam all but growls, "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you where you stand?"

     Shoulder's slumping, Dean hunches forward, fingers steepled against the marquetry pattern and voice pitched just loud enough for Sam to hear him other side of the table over the continuing music.  
     "I was four when I lost my mother in a house fire. When my dad told me my brother had died too. Ever since, over thirty damned years, been having the same nightmare."

     "A sob story's not going to save-" Sam cuts off abruptly, stares back into Dean's imploring eyes. It's not the pleading, but rather how broken the man looks, how...lost and haunted. Lips pursed, he motions for Dean to hurriedly get on with it.

     Dean cuts his gaze away, to the side and back to the table, like he can't bear to look at Sam as he continues, "I... Never knew how much was memory, what parts my mind made up. Always starts with me standing in the hallway, outside the nursery. I can't see Mom, but I know she's in there – with the flames and the heat. And then Dad, Dad's yelling at me, shoving the squalling bundle into my arms, telling me to run outside as fast as I can."

     Watching Dean as he swallows hard, Sam feels a chill run down his back.

     "I'm outside," Dean goes on, "holding him, rocking him. Telling him it's going to be okay – cold from the frosty ground seeping through my pajama bottoms where I'm sitting, flames from the house warming us in contrast as they burn my life away.  
     "Mom and Dad, I don't know where they are – still inside – but there are suddenly men there, and flashing lights. And over the sound of the sirens, they're swearing to me they just need to make sure the baby's okay. It only makes me cling to him harder, scream louder – 'My Sammy!" – before they're ripping him away."

     Sam can taste the bile in the back of his throat, struggles to find his voice. "What...what the fuck are you telling me, Dean? What are you trying to insinuate?"

     Slowly straightening, Dean raises his hands in supplication before gingerly reaching his right inside his partially buttoned denim jacket.

     Flinching at the crisp _snap_ of the folder landing alongside the badge, Sam glares at them both – emotions warring between rage at one and fear of the other.

     "Samuel Francis Winchester, born May 2, 1983, didn't die in that fire," Dean offers as Sam fiercely grabs up the folder. "John lied to me. Gave up my six-month-old baby brother to Child Services and told me he was dead."

     The folder drops to the floor, papers fluttering out and falling scattered, only one left clutched in Sam's white-knuckled grasp as he scans and reads the pertinent information:

 

 

> **11/8/1983**
> 
> **Name: Samuel Francis Winchester**
> 
> **DOB: May 2, 1983**
> 
> **Relinquished by biological father to Child Protective Services.**
> 
> **Mother deceased.**
> 
>  
> 
> **12/15/1984**
> 
> **Closed adoption finalized.**
> 
> **Adoptive Father: Eli Azazel**
> 
> **Adoptive Mother: Meg Azazel**
> 
>  
> 
> *****Records To Be Sealed Effective Immediately*****
> 
>  

     Broken and wet, Dean mutters a single word, "Sammy."

     Struck with white-hot anger and agonizing confusion, Sam rushes around the table. Fistfuls of denim caught up in his grip, he's throwing Dean up against the nearest wall, violent demands and viscous accusations coming in a steady stream, "How long have you fucking known?! Why would...would he give me up like that? And you, how the hell could you use... I may be a cold-blooded murderer, but what kind of sick bastard fucks his own...his own damned _brother_ just to...to..."

     "I didn't know, Sammy! I di-"

     "It's **Sam**!"

     Dean can't hold back his tears. "I didn't know. I fucking swear to you, I didn't... Only just got the sealed records tonight. Wasn't...wasn't even supposed to get your birth records. Family friend pulled some strings and..." Dean manages to reach up and take Sam's distraught face between his hands. "If I'd ever thought, for one damn second, that you hadn't... Might've only been a little kid, but from the moment you kicked me from inside Mom's belly, I loved you. You were 'My Sammy.' And I'd've moved heaven and earth, even hell, to find you and get you back if I'd known you were alive."

     Staring into shimmering eyes full of love and remorse, Sam swallows a hitched sob, forehead dropping forward against Dean's.

     "This doesn't have to... Tell me you don't feel it too. Haven't felt it all along, this thing between us. You can't."

     Sam lets go of Dean and whirls around, grabs a decanter from the nearby sideboard and smashes it against the wall – crimson liquid staining a trail down the wall like blood. "And just what do you expect me to do, huh? You got some goody-two-shoe fantasy goin' where I give up my life? Turn myself in? I do twenty to thirty on the plea bargain you get me, and you visit? Wait for me until I get out an old man and you're retired and we ride off into an incestuous sunset together?"

     "Turn yourself in? I... No. God help me, but no, Sam. Your life though..." Dean steps forward, puts his palm flat over Sam's heart. "I'm willing to give up mine, are you?"

     "Dean. I can't just..."

     "Can't you? Can't we just skip it all and get right to the riding off into the sunset part? Incest be damned!"

     "You're fucking serious?"

     Dean steps in closer, crowds up against Sam, kisses him.

     Sam stands motionless, unresponsive to Dean's assail. It's all too much. His past, his life... The truth. What Dean's suggesting, asking of him, using his body to plead and coax of him, Sam can't... With a guttural cry, something inside him breaks, fingers curling fierce-tight-possessive around Dean's – _his brother's_ – biceps, and Sam's desperately licking his way into Dean's mouth.

     It's minutes gone, possibly hours, when Dean breaks the kiss – gazes up at Sam, awed. "Can't believe... My Sammy."

     Eyelids falling shut, Sam wets his lips, breathes. "Need you, Dean. Now."

     They barely make it to the sofa.

     The mutual voids from their emotional evisceration demand to be filled, and any semblance of tenderness is swept aside – the way made for primal, fierce, assurances and promises – as Dean turns Sam in his arms and shoves him over the back of the sofa.  
     Standing there, he watches Sam work his sleep pants down around his thighs, spit onto his fingers, and reach back to breach himself on a single long finger. If Dean wasn't hard before, he sure as hell is now. "Dammit, Sammy. What you fuckin' do to me."  
     Hands reaching out of their own volition, the possessive splay of his palms on Sam's ass as he spreads him open leads to a heady rush, the way his brother's stance automatically widens in response. Dean, in turn, promptly rewards him. Crouches down and leans in to mix his saliva with his brother's – dexterous tongue twisting and seeking along Sam's buried digit... And Dean _needs_ to get in there, slips his index finger in alongside Sam's and fucks into him several times over before he tugs against the rim. "Pull, Sammy. Open up for me," Dean orders – and Sam does, a slight hiss against the pain.  
     There's a taboo intimacy to the view in front of him, Dean staring into his brother like this. Wrinkled pink walls run through with tiny veins, slick and silky to the touch... Dean delves his tongue inside, deep as he can possibly get, and he could fucking cum like this – Sam grinding back against his face as he eats his brother out, begging as Dean gets him all sloppy with spit.

     The sofa's ebony fabric is in danger of being gouged, Sam's nails raking across the sueded surface with his free hand. "Dean, fuck...please."

     Dean isn't the only one who could get off this way, knows he could make Sam shoot from just this – Dean sucking along his rim, tongue burrowed and writhing in his ass. It isn't what Sam needs though, not this time. Dean either. No contest between tongue or cock when it comes to which provides a more intense sense of connection.  
     A little more saliva fed inside, and Dean takes Sam's finger between his teeth and pulls – his own digit withdrawn in tandem leaving the now reddened sphincter to close.

     "Dean."

     That single word. The harsh and desperate tone. Dean's already fumbling with his belt and jeans, barely has himself out before he spits on his turgid length. "Yeah, I got ya, Sammy."  
     One hand splayed over Sam's lower back, Dean uses the other to guide himself in. He doesn't slam inside, but he's not gentle either. Steadily sinks in until his sac's snug against Sam's taint, and doesn't give his brother a chance to adjust before he's withdrawing – Sam's rim suckling the tip of his cock as Dean shoves his jeans and boxer-briefs further out of the way.

     "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dammit, Dean."

     This time, he slams forward.

     Sans lube it's intense friction and the perfect hint of pain, Sam's inner-walls clinging to Dean's length – tautly stretched lip of rosy-pink insides tugged outside before he shoves back in. The few times they've done this, and now, knows it's more intense for Sam, little hurt sounds driving Dean crazy – so fucking wrong he'd feel guilty if not for the mingled low growls of "yes, more, harder" driving him on.  
     He's close. Savors that too-fucking-good crescendo of pressure. The way Sam's trembling, slamming himself back to meet Dean's thrusts, he knows his brother's riding the edge too. "Don't even need to touch yourself, do you? Just my cock, filling you up, claiming you. Knowing I'm gonna cum deep inside you, mark you... My Sammy."

     Sam cums on a hoarse cry, shooting down the back of the sofa cushions – ivory against ebony – as he nearly shakes apart.

     "Oh fuck, Sammy, yeah, just like that, baby." And that's it, Dean's done. Grips Sam's hips tight and brutally tugs him back, grinding his pelvis against his brother's ass as he empties inside him. With the final pulse of his cock, Dean falls forward over Sam's back.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Minutes silently passing between them, Dean eventually lifts himself up though he stands there dazed a few minutes more.  
     Synapses finally firing, he toes off his shoes and kicks out of his jeans, contemplates 'on or off' before pulling up his boxer-briefs. He leans forward then, presses a kiss to Sam's tailbone. "Right back."  
     The Henley over his t-shirt lost on the way to the kitchen, he wets a hand towel and snags two bottles of water out of the fridge.

     Still starfished over the back of the sofa when Dean promptly returns, Sam hasn't budged

     "Did I break you?"

     Sam snorts, though Dean cleaning him up doesn't garner so much as a twitch.

     Working Sam's sleep pants back up over his ass, Dean give his rump a light swat. "Come on, at least lay down here."

     Grunting, Sam forgoes straightening up and walking around the sofa to lie down, rather twisting himself and rolling over the back onto the seat cushions.

     Dean chuckles, head shaking fondly and eyes tracking the shift of muscles in the long lines of his body as Sam stretches out like a lazy cat. Moving to the front of the sofa, he hands Sam one of the waters. He could make him scoot over, squeeze in beside him. A different time, he might've considered manhandling him to spoon behind him, positioned to slip back inside for a second more languid round after a rest. Instead he grabs one of the over-sized throw pillows and drops it to the floor, settles on top and rest his back against the sofa in front of his brother. "Should we talk?"

     "About?"

     Dean shrugs. "Anything."

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Sam doesn't want to talk about his past. A Master of Repression since he snuck out the kitchen door of his final foster placement in the middle of the night – has staunchly refused to allow anything from _then_ to encroach. Dean's already been given the CliffsNotes version, and maybe... Eventually, but not now. Makes it perfectly clear, while proceeding to equally make evident his strong desire to know about Dean's past – his real past.

     "Sam, it's..."

     "Awkward. I get that. But, you did say 'anything,' and I want to know, feel like I need to hear it. And, considering, figure I've got a right-"

     "Okay, yeah, you're right. You do. Have to say this though, make it clear. Things...sucked. Not gonna sugarcoat anything, but also need to make sure you understand that I realize it doesn't even _begin_ to compare..."

     "It's fine, Dean, really."

     "Yeah, alright." Dean shifts a little, crosses his ankles and tilts his head back to rest against Sam's thigh – into the fingers now playing through his short hair.  
     "Not really sure how Mom and Dad met. Was too young for Mom to regale me with those kinds of stories, and Dad... After she died, he wouldn't talk about her. Refused to talk about you either. Hell, barely talked to me.  
     "Remember we were happy, especially when you came along. Like I said before, you were 'My Sammy.' Started out this elusive idea I couldn't really grasp at first...but made Mom and Dad extra happy. Then when I finally felt you kick... Probably drove Mom nuts the next few months, constantly asking when she was going to let you out of her belly. Anyway, if there's anything you've got to know, you were loved. If that fucking fire..."

     "How?"

     "Faulty wiring. They'd updated the electric and... Smoke alarm woke me up, though I heard Dad yellin' before I even got into the hall. He had you in his arms, saw me, started shouting at me to run outside and not look back as he gave you to me. And that's what I did. The rest, know now my nightmare was least mostly true."

     "Do you know what... Why he?" Sam can't finish either question.

     "When I found out, about you, didn't even call just drove straight to Uncle Bobby's."

     "We have an Uncle Bobby?"

     "Well, I..." Dean starts, hesitant, though he goes on to offer fondly, "Yeah, yeah we do. Old family friend of Mom and Dad's. Became a surrogate father to me- I'll get to that. He lives 'bout three hours north of here, outside Sioux Falls. I made it in about two tonight. Figured if anyone had answers-"

     Sam's fingers halt against Dean's scalp. "Wait, what about-"

     "He's dead, Sam. Our dad, John, died near twenty-five years ago and tried to take it all to the grave with him." Dean reaches up and back, grips behind Sam's knee and squeezes. "And Bobby wasn't much help either. He didn't know, Sam. Said something didn't seem right, but John kept to his story. Told Bobby you died on the way to the hospital from the smoke. Guess I was inconsolable. Dad couldn't deal, left me with Bobby. Even Bobby was at a loss. Ended up calling an old friend of Mom's, Missouri Moseley. She flew in from Chicago, stayed a couple weeks, and they got me through the worst of it.  
     "Bobby, he finally confessed tonight, as soon as Missouri'd arrived he did some snooping. Couldn't shake the feeling... But, knowing what he does now, Bobby thought back on all the folks he'd talked to then, figures John must've greased just the right palms. There'd been nothing suspicious and he had to let it go.  
     "When...when I told him you were alive, he cried. Only a handful of times I've ever seen him shed a tear."

     "You told him," it's a non-question Sam knows Dean will understand without clarification.

     "I..." Dean hesitates, sighs. "Realize I probably should've asked you first, but I was... I didn't know what to do, how to handle it."

     "It's okay." Sam's fingers take up again in Dean's hair, the touch soothing for both of them.

     "We tried to sort it all out. Best we could come up with is John couldn't handle it, the both of us. Not trying to make excuses, but facts were he'd just lost his wife, was grieving, had a four-year-old and a baby – you might've been sick from the smoke. Don't know if he left you at the hospital or tried for a week, felt he was in over his head, and instead of asking for help like he fucking should've done... I don't remember much those first few months, after they pried you out of my arms. Little bit of Bobby carrying me around, holding me for hours on end. Missouri coming, rocking me and coaxing me to eat. Starting to come out of my stupor. Vaguely remember Dad returning to get me a few weeks later – you and Mom not with him, and I shut right back down. Since I at least wasn't crying or fussing, John took me with him."

     "You, uh..." Sam isn't really sure how to ask, if he should bring it up.

     "Go ahead, will answer whatever you want to know if I can."

     "Just, notice sometimes you call him Dad, other times John."

     Dean turns further into Sam's touch, considers. "Never really realized. Suppose still a lot of unresolved shit, and things were so... I lost my mother, my baby brother, and, for the most part, John Winchester didn't survive that fire either. He was still my dad, but he wasn't.  
     "Things never got better," Dean goes on. "Mean, I finally came around a bit. Accepted you and Mom were gone. Tried for a while to see if I could rouse something of my Dad out of the shell dragging me around from one town to the next. Didn't work, and I gave up. Took me some time to understand he was almost always drunk, which meant continually getting fired from this job or that – and usually involved another move. Sometimes he'd drop me at Missouri's for a few weeks, a month or two at Bobby's. I'd hear them arguing when he'd finally blow back around, trying to convince him to let me be.  
     "I was thirteen when he crawled inside his final bottle and drowned in it."

     Sam stills his fingers again, cradles his brother's head with his palm. "Dean."

     Dean swallows hard, squeezes Sam's calf as he shakes his head. "Had...hadn't seen Bobby for a solid two years. Poor guy. I was nomadic, hostile, a bundle of hormones and he just..."

     When a silent minute has passed, Sam sits up and slides down onto the floor next to Dean. He leans in and kisses his temple, takes his hand and threads their fingers together. "He was a father."

     Dean turns and meets Sam's eyes – has avoided doing so since he started – and nods.

     Sam catches the single tear escaping down his brother's cheek.

     "Fuckin' 'chick flick' moments," Dean grumbles.

     Sam snorts, kisses Dean again – on the lips.

     Dean kisses him back, manages a slight smile, sniffs. "Bobby though, he did good. Damn good. Was able to help me find ways to channel all that pent-up – at times explosive – negativity into positive outlets. Spent hours at the kitchen table getting me caught-up with school. Taught me to shoot a gun. Hell, taught me damn near everything." Dean manages a soft laugh.

     "Bobby sounds like a good man. I'm glad he was there for you."

     "He is. Can't wait for you to meet him."

     "We'll figure it out, find a way."

     "Good." Dean lets his head tip over onto Sam's shoulder.

     "Is he, uh..."

     "Hmm?"

     "Well, is Bobby FBI too?"

     "Oh, no. Does some P.I. work here and there, but he runs a salvage yard. Works on classic cars too. Now, his old buddy Rufus is, and he's the one that got me interested."

     Sam nods, presses his lips to the crown of Dean's head. "You're really not going to turn me in?"

     "Are you going to leave it behind? Go away with me?" Dean questions, forgoing an answer.

     "Yes."

     "Then yes."

     "Because I'm your brother?"

     Dean sits up straight, scrubs a hand over his mouth and down his chin. "Yeah, Sam, yeah. Yes, because you're my baby brother. And yes because you're...you're under my skin! Even before I knew, you're in my fucking veins and I can't..."

     "Shh." Sam places a finger to Dean's lips, replaces it quickly enough with his own. "We'll go, it's okay," he mumbles as he draws back. "You and me, Dean. But right now? We're going to get our asses off of this floor and go into the bedroom and sleep. We'll get up in the morning, then eat breakfast in bed naked while we figure this all out. And if anyone tries to get in our way," Sam shrugs heedlessly, "we shoot 'em. Alright?"

     Dean barks a rough sound of laughter, can't help it. "Omit the whole killing more people thing, add in a round of shower-sex somewhere in there, and you've got a deal."

     Sam kisses Dean soundly to seal the deal.


	6. Part Three - They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do - Chapter Two

**Part Three**

_**They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do** _

**Chapter Two**

 

 

 

     They wake a tangled heap of limbs, Sam cursing when he disturbs Dean while trying to extricate himself – but he's really gotta piss.  
     When he returns, crawls back into bed beside a dozing Dean, Sam sucks in his lower lip in a rare nervous display. Worries at the tender flesh while watching Dean rouse – looks like a newborn kitten with his sleep mussed hair and barely open eyes. "Is this weird?" he eventually blurts out.

     Dean's frowning, mumbles, "Wha?" before forcing himself to sit up and look fully at Sam.

     "This? Us? Being...brothers?"

     Hand running roughly through his hair, tongue striking out to wet his lips, Dean, of all things, stretches...and proceeds to yawn.

     "Dean!" Sam barks.

     "What?" Dean grumbles back sharply. Seeming to take notice of Sam's genuine distress, he softens. "Look... Is it kinda weird? If we dwell on it, yeah. Sure. But the way I see it, only an issue if we – you and me – make it one. Your childhood was...horrific, and I don't want you to think I'm dismissing that, or trying to make comparisons with what I'm about to say, but... We _both_ got a raw deal not being able to grow up as we were meant to, as brothers. The fact is though, we didn't. Yet, somehow, here we are. Fate, destiny, pure chance, no matter what you want to call it, we were brought together. And what you mean to me, what I hope and think I mean to you, I refuse to feel guilty about that."

     Sam nods, his concerns swiftly shifting at those last words, and he's deep in thought until suddenly he's not – morning breath be damned, Dean's kissing him firmly though brief.

     "Stop thinking. We don't need to go rushing to label things – if ever. No need for forced proclamations. We've got time, and I don't plan on going anywhere." With that, Dean rolls out of bed and stands, scratching absently at the sparse hair beneath his navel.

     "Well so much for not going anywhere," Sam grumbles.

     Dean laughs, saunters bare-assed towards the bathroom. "Fine. Technically, going to go take a piss and then round us up some breakfast. We require sustenance, Sammy. In a grander sense? You'd have to be the one to leave me because now that I have you back, nothing even heaven or hell could do would get me to let you go."

     Justly, Sam may not be good with his feelings, emotions of the non-destructive kind, but the shock of warmth running through him has surprisingly little to do with his appreciative view of Dean's magnificent backside.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Dean's singing in the kitchen. Loudly. It's not horrible, not all that good either.

     Sam's smiling regardless, gets out of bed and hums along as he pulls on a pair of sweats and goes to his walk-in closet.  
     He drags out a couple of large suitcases. Grabs a shoulder bag too as he thinks about how he'll never be back – all the things he doesn't care about leaving behind. Sentiment to his possessions is few and far between. Never had much in the way of material _things_ to be attached to until Tony took him in. Only personal possession he was afforded as a child had been a stuffed blue lamb – more a dingy gray, torn, and one eye missing by the time it got left behind in the raid.

     "Sam! Sammy!"

     Giving himself a shake, Sam wonders how long Dean's been calling for him. Hustles out to kitchen rather than yell back. "Yeah?"

     Dean startles, turns, whisk in hand and still naked but for a kitchen apron Sam had forgotten he even owned. He smiles, seemingly unaware of the flour smeared across his cheek. Along with the question, "Chocolate chips or berries?" Dean casually gestures a silent reminder to Sam about the open living space being bugged.

     Sam nods, steps forward and thumbs away the white, dusty smudge. "Both."

     "Suppose you want bacon _and_ sausage too?"

     "Nah, just bacon."

     A low, "Hmm," in acknowledgment, Dean turns back to a pile of fresh berries, cuts the larger pieces as he tilts his head to the left to readily accommodate Sam's nuzzling – tall, lean body practically melded against his bare back.

     Nuzzling turns to kissing turns to biting and sucking, and Sam pays little mind to the chocolate and berries being folded into fluffy batter as he spins Dean around, reaches back and down to take hold of thick muscular thighs, and hefts him onto the counter – cutting board and a glass bowl of blueberries crashing to the floor, little purple fruits scattering underfoot.

     Dean gives an indignant squawk, though his legs come up to wrap around Sam's waist like they belong there. He grabs him by the nape of his neck, rough. Yanks him in close and bites into the flesh of Sam's lower lip before thrusting his tongue between.

     Shoving down his sweats and flipping aside Dean's apron, Sam is just getting his hand around the both of their already erect lengths when he whips around at the sudden noise behind him.

     Having cleared his throat, Gordon has the decency to avert his eyes from the scene before him.

     "What the fuck, Gordon?!"

     "Your lunch appointment, with Mariano. I waited in the car, finally came up and was about to knock when I heard the crash..." Gordon finishes with a shrug.

     Sam hastily covers himself and turns fully to face Gordon, a mostly naked Dean tucked behind him. "Shit, totally... Just cancel. Make my apologies. Tell him next week, name the place and time, on me. And send him a bottle of that cognac he likes."

     "Will do. I'll just...leave you to it then."

     Sam watches Gordon let himself out. Waits until the door clicks shut before turning to find Dean staring at him oddly, questioningly. It takes a moment for him to realize... "Force of habit. Put on the spot like that... Not backing out on you – us. Swear."

     Dean deflates, nods. "Probably best you handled it like you normally would. Don't want to draw any suspicion."

     "Good point," Sam agrees, making to help his brother off the counter and only laughing at the look it gets him. Hands held up in relinquishment, he steps back and watches Dean easily get to his own two feet with a roll of his eyes.

     Smoothing out his apron, Dean turns back to the pancake batter. "Let's salvage what we can of breakfast, head back to bed. Eat, plan."

     "Shower-sex."

     "You know it."

_**~ ~ ~** _

     They're managing to come up with a reasonable plan – easy enough to pass off their departure as a little vacation, nothing suspicious about that – when Dean's phone sounds.

     "You ready for this?"

     "Ready as I'm going to be." A reassuring nod from Sam, and Dean answers.

     "What the fuck happened, Winchester?!"

     "I did my job and got him to fucking talk, that's what happened!" he promptly yells back.

     "Well we sure as shit didn't get any of it. Care to explain what the hell happened?"

     "Look, it was a calculated risk. And yeah, for a minute I thought it backfired. Was worried I'd been made and had to buy myself a minute. Didn't think he'd damn well give me music to take it by."

     "And you couldn't turn it off?"

     "No, Henriksen, I couldn't. And to be perfectly fucking honest, I didn't even try. Wasn't my main concern in the moment."

     "Doing what we sent you in to do, to get him to confess on tape, that wasn't your concern?"

     "You ever been undercover?" Dean demands.

     "I don't see what that has-"

     Dean huffs a laugh, divisive, cuts Henriksen off, "Didn't think so. And until you've been undercover, in the fucking thick of it, don't you dare question me. Not some rookie here. And if a situation calls for me to tread light to keep it under control, you can damn well bet I'm going to." Dean takes a breath, presses on before Henriksen can stop him, "Anyway, it payed off. Know you didn't get anything solid. Even the blank admissions I'm sure you heard-"

     "Nothing concrete. I take it what you got after was?"

     "Yeah. Anything I tell you is hearsay so not going to bother, but I can assure you it was only the start. D'Eboli trusts me now. Can tell he wants someone to confide in. Don't know if it's to ease his conscience or thinks it will impress me, but either way, he's ready to spill. In fact, wants to take me away for the weekend. He refused to tell me where, said he wants it to be a surprise, but I'll take recording devices. When I get back, you'll have what you need."

     "I damn well better, Winchester."

     Henriksen ends the call.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Dean _Remington_ had a shift to cover. Needs to keep up appearances until they leave everything behind the following day via the private jet Sam has arranged – complete with a stop in Chicago. Romantic dinner at Roka Akor before they leave the country more like dinner and a quick stop at Dean _Winchester's_ apartment.

     Sam takes the time alone to leisurely pack. Savors the lingering good kind of ache – in all the right places – from his earlier pounding in the decadently appointed custom shower he will indeed miss. It's not as though he can't have a new one built, once they're settled somewhere abroad. Sam's been smart with his money. Devious in the ways he's pilfered more than his fair take, and clever in the ways – and places – he's both invested and secured it. Himself, and Dean, they'll never have to worry about money.  
     Thinking of money, Sam decides to leave clearing out the safe in his bedroom closet until the following day, right before he heads out to get Dean. A mil in cash, passport, various important documents he's not likely to require, and a folder and flash drive he's hoped to never need. Yet with the recent turn of events... He'll sleep – fitful most likely – on the idea he has in mind for the damning information he's compiled.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Rufus Turner had lied. At least Rufus was fairly certain he had, Henriksen playing the surveillance audio in question for him and asking if he thought Winchester was being on the up-and-up. He'd vouched for the kid, reassured Henriksen of Dean's instincts. Suggested not to question and let things play out, that Dean would bring D'Eboli in.

     "Dammit, Singer! Call me back when you get this, your boy's gone stupid and is set to get himself in a world of trouble. He and D'Eboli are taking a private jet out of North Omaha in two hours. Trying to track him now, otherwise plan on stopping him there from... Hell, old man, I don't even know what. Got a rumbling in my gut though, says this isn't the simple little undercover vacation he's trying to pass it off as."

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Sam's only been to Dean's the once before this. A nice enough apartment in a nice enough complex. Mostly he has fond memories of the sofa - and oddly enough, the wall to the right of the front door. The wall with a Sam-sized dent in the plaster.  
     When he'd shown up unexpectedly, Dean had yanked him inside by his collar, thrown him up against the wall, and mauled his mouth until they were both a harshly panting, wanting mess of need. Fabric had been ripped, buttons popped free and scattered. Going on primal urge alone, Sam had wrapped his long fingers around Dean's throat – squeezed just shy of too tight before easing his grip – and walked the man backward by his hold until they'd reached the sofa Sam none too gently shoved him back on. To the displeasure of Dean's neighbors, he'd ridden him long and rough. Neither of them quiet as Sam had brought them both to the edge over and over before they finally climaxed in tandem – Sam's hole clenching in sync to his hand controlling Dean's breath.  
     Though the sex had been stellar, the accommodations had not been, well, _accommodating_ of their tendency towards aggressive _relations_.

     A quick rap of knuckles on wood and Dean opens the door, brow instantly furrowed as he takes in his nervous brother.

     "Here." Sam's barely stepped inside the apartment when he shoves the folder and flash drive at a bemused Dean. "It's not... Nothing that can definitively come back around to me, but... Let's just say a lot of bad people will be put away with these."

     "Sammy-"

     "Don't. And, please, until this is all behind us, just...it's Sam."

     Dean clasps a palm to the side of Sam's neck, thumb stroking as he simply nods.

     "Thanks," Sam offers.

     "Thinking I should be the one thanking you here, but... I'll make sure the right people get these when we stop in Chicago."


	7. Part Three - They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do - Chapter Three

**Part Three**

_**They Don't Give A Fuck About You Like I Do** _

**Chapter Three**

 

 

 

     This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

     Dean inside the cabin of the plane for a brief few minutes, exiting to find an impromptu farewell party complete with two unwanted guests and three drawn guns. Sam's got two on him, his own pointed at Rufus.

     "What the fuck?!" Dean storms.

     Sam curses, gestures with a jerk of his head back towards Dean and the plane. "Get back inside, Dean."

     "Like hell!" Hands raised, Dean's steps are slow yet sure as he makes his way to stand beside his brother. "Gordon, Rufus," he nods to each man in turn, "nice of you to come give us a send off. Might be nicer if we could all lower the guns, talk this out."

     "Save it, Remington, if that's even your name. Only reason I haven't put a hole in your boyfriend here is he's worth more to me alive." Gordon cocks his head. "Dead works too. Up to Sam here."

     Dean simply nods, figures he'll have more luck with Rufus – seriously needs him on their side right now – and turns to the man he's known the better part of his life.

     "Sorry, Dean, can't do it."

     "Rufus, ple-"

     "What was in the file, Dean?"

     Dean's not even shocked, not really. Rufus is a clever man, a competent agent. Gaze turned heavenward, he shakes his head ruefully. "Let it go, Rufus. Asking you as family, please, let it go. Let us go. Not sure what exactly tipped you off, but know you've kept it to yourself or this place would be swarmin' with Feds."

     "Fuck, kid. It's him, isn't it?" Rufus looks at Sam like he's searching for something, aim lowering a fraction. "Know you, know you wouldn't be asking me to do this if-"

     Dean doesn't know if he hears it, sees some motion out of his peripheral, or if he simply senses his baby brother is in imminent danger… … …   
     "Sammy!"

 

     The sound of the shot echos harshly though the hanger.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     It doesn't seem possible, so much happening in what feels like a mere moment. Sam's shoulder bouncing painfully against the concrete as his gun jars from his hand and skitters across the floor. Hearing Gordon's loud curse, then only managing to catch sight of him take aim at Rufus as another shot sounds – Gordon's eyes going shock wide and his body crumpling forward – because Sam's whipping his head up and around to find Dean. Dean, who's lying beside him, blood pooling beneath his still body.  
     " **No!** "  
     Sam scrambles forward, hands and knees slipping in the blood. He hesitates to touch him, his brother's eyes closed. He can't... "No, no, no, Dean, _please_ , baby."  
     Sam doesn't know where he came from, but there's a strange bearded man with a trucker's cap reaching for Dean, and Sam is no longer hesitating, draping his own body over his brother's. "Don't you touch him! Don't you _fucking_ touch him!"

     "Easy now, easy, son. He's my boy. You gotta let me look at him."

     Sam stares at the man, blinks. "Bob... Are you Bobby?"

     Bobby nods curtly before turning to Rufus. "Dammit, find me a first-aid kit. Need somethin' sharp, and thread." He turns back to Sam. "Please, kid, have to let me-"

     "Okay, okay. Alright, just... Don't let him die. Please." Sam uncurls himself from shielding Dean, allows Bobby access to his brother though there's no way in hell he's leaving his side.

     "Ain't nobody dying here 'cept that son-of-a-bitch over there," Bobby swears, ripping away Dean's bloodied shirt to reveal the gunshot wound to his shoulder.

     Rufus hurries back, hands Bobby the first-aid kit and a steak knife – along with a bottle of vodka and several hand towels – he found on the plane. "No thread."

     "Shit." Bobby lays several of the hand towels over Dean's still bleeding wound, grabs one of Sam's hands and presses it down hard for compression, then pauses a fraction of a second. "My truck, it's 'round back. Fishin' wire. A hook and pliers too."

     "Maybe we should-" Sam starts, only to be cut off by a pained groan.

     "Not a damn trout," Dean grumbles, eyes still closed and brow creased.

     Bobby chuckles, low and relieved. "That's my boy."

     "Oh thank God, Dean," Sam breathes out the rush of words, fingers stroking his forehead and down his temple.

     Shifting his head into the touch, Dean mumbles, "You okay, Sammy."

     "I'm fine, Dean. Thanks to your stupid ass."

     Bobby reaches around the back of Dean's head – opposite from where Sam's still soothing him – carefully working his fingers through short strands. Nods when he finds the lump, tacky to his touch. "Knocked your head pretty good there, son."

     Requested items in hand, Rufus runs back into the hanger, stops beside Bobby and gives them over. "Is he..."

     "Gonna be fine." Bobby gingerly moves the pressure of Sam's hand, along with the now crimson hand towels. "Just fine," he assures. "Not near as bad as I feared. Bleedin's already slowed, likely just nicked a smaller artery – already sealin' itself off. I'll clean the wound, stitch it up." Bobby glances up at Sam. "Your, uh, friend over there. He the only one coming for you?"

     Sam briefly cuts his stare to Gordon's body, then back to Bobby. Jaw clenching, he shakes his head. The odds that Gordon somehow figured things out, that he shared his suspicions – aren't in Sam's favor.

     "Dean's still gonna be needing medical attention, sooner than later. Most important get that head looked at. Don't like that he lost consciousness."

     "I'll call for-"

     "No!" Dean hisses against the volume of his own voice, lifts his hand to the back of his head with a grimace.

     "Don't you touch that phone, Rufus. You and me, we're gonna help these two with a little detour. Get my boy here fixed up, then see that he and...and his brother, are put back on track with their _vacation_."

     Fear, anger, hurt...guilt, all are clear in Sam's eyes as he peers hard at the man staring back at him with nothing but open affection and regret.

     "If I'd've known, son... I... I looked. Had this damned niggle backa my brain, but there was nothin'. Not even a trail to go cold. If I had known for certain though..." Bobby reaches up, cups a rough palm against the side of Sam's neck. "I'm sorry, Sam."

     Sam, for his part, doesn't draw away from the touch. Closes his eyes and nods his head.

     "Bobby," Rufus starts, tone low and cautious, like he's about to negotiate with a mother lion to give over her cubs, as he goes on, "I get it, man, I do. But we can't just-"

     "The hell we can't!" Bobby attacks. Up on his feet and moving with purpose towards his friend. "Don't try to tell me you didn't read those God damned files, don't know what that kid lived through because his daddy..."

     Bobby obviously warring with heated emotions and struggling for words, Rufus interjects, "You're right, what he went through as a kid, aren't words harsh enough for that, but it doesn't justify what he's d-"

     "You got anything on him that'll stick?" Bobby demands.

     Rufus sighs, morose, shakes his head.

     "Dean do anything illegal?"

     "He flees with that man? Can damn near guarantee Henriksen will be screaming for 'aiding and abetting' charges."

     "Dean," Bobby calls back over his shoulder. "You help Sam there commit any crimes?"

     Dean's clipped reply is low but clear, "No."

     "You see him break the law?"

     "No."

     "Dammit, Bobby, Henriksen's got Sam confessing to Dean on tape!"

     Bobby's eyes narrow. "Thought you just said-"

     "Wasn't specific," Rufus admits. "But Dean told Henriksen that Sam gave him plenty."

     "Actually." Dean coughs, gingerly makes his way to sitting with Sam's help. "Might've alluded...but I didn't give him shit. You want to offer him up a big juicy bone though? In my bag, got a folder and flash drive full of solid evidence against some major players. Keep him busy for a damn year. Earn him a new plaque for his fucking bragging wall."

     "There you go," Bobby offers, as if that settles it.

     The way Rufus rolls his eyes heavenwards, it does.

 

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     The need for a detour becomes rather a change in itinerary. As soon as they locate the pilot and co-pilot – the latter having stayed hidden in the cockpit, while the pilot had been running late and missed the entire incident – they're still on course for Chicago.  
     Strings are pulled, palms greased with the cash Sam has in his brown leather carry-on.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     They change arrival (and re-departure) airports. Extra driving time, from the outlying suburb into the city, worth the switch-up to throw off anyone potentially trailing them. It also puts them closer to the clinic Missouri insists on personally driving them to – Sam and Dean's romantic dinner unfortunately sacrificed for an after-hours visit with one of her cousins, Dr. Stewart, whose discomfort with the favor is quelled only by Sam's offering of a generous financial contribution to the low/no-income clinic.

     Dr. Stewart's additional concerns over Dean potentially needing more care than he can provide are unwarranted. Dean's head x-ray is clear, the doctor additionally humming his approval of Bobby's fishing line stitches. He is, however, disapproving of Dean's imminent extended flight. Makes Sam promise to watch for a list of symptoms and detour the flight should they arise.

     With a firm look from Dean, Sam doesn't mention the _minor_ detail of how they'll be over the Atlantic for seven hours.

     Further instructions given to get an MRI of his shoulder once they reach their destination, Dr. Stewart hands Dean prescriptions for pain pills and an antibiotic. Sam, in turn, hands Dr. Stewart a wrapped stack of one-hundred dollar bills.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Clucking over Dean's slung arm and dinged noggin like a true mother hen, Missouri all but demands to remain personal chauffeur to the two "boys." Insists she can get them to Dean's apartment to collect his belongings, a pharmacy to fill his prescriptions, and back to the airport safer and quicker than any damn cabby.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     It's likely overly cautious, yet they still take more time canvasing outside of Dean's place than he does gathering his belongings.

     Missouri promises to come back with a couple nephews and a moving van. Will pack the remainder of Dean's belongings and store them until...later.

     Though grateful, Dean assures her it's not necessary. He's packing as Sam had, keeping to only what's most important. Personal items, documents, a couple old photo albums, and some sentimental odds and ends. Only has a few suitcases and luggage bags – and his antique trunk.

     Dean's _locked_ antique trunk. A _locked_ antique trunk which has Dean going cryptic and refusing to divulge the contents of – even when reminded how _ALL_ of their belongings are likely to be inspected in customs.

     Sam takes note of how Dean seems to go a touch pink at that.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Luggage – and _locked_ antique trunk – stowed in the rear of Missouri's mini-van, all that's left is getting Dean's prescriptions filled at the Walgreen's less than a mile from his place. And while it may be no Roka Akor, in Sam's opinion, there _is_ one of the Top Three ranking pizza joints right down the block from the drugstore for them to grab dinner to-go.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     The plane fueled – and each brother fussed over, hugged, and cheeks kissed – they're one _locked_ antique trunk, five pieces of luggage, three deep-dish pizza pies, and one case of Missouri Moseley's medicinal moonshine-whiskey additionally heavy at take-off.


	8. Part Four - I'll Be the One To Protect You - Chapter One

**Part Four**

**_I'll Be the One To Protect You_ **

**Chapter One**

 

 

 

     Portugal.

     There'd been an exchange of bemused smiles when Dean and Sam had planned their exile, lists of top-five initial destinations scribbled and swapped – both with Portugal at the top.

     Seven weeks of exploring and assimilating, the decision to make the coastal capital region their home base is an easy one. Going about doing so however proves a touch more complex – the legalities and paperwork involved with foreigners becoming property owning residents a Circle of Hell unto itself. Sam and Dean take it all in stride.  
     A couple days of research, they find a reputable law firm. Advogados Português, fluent in English, who will see to their every legal need.  
     Locating a decent realtor is another matter, Sam eventually opting to go through a US real estate agency with international divisions.

     It's two weeks of near daily searching once set up with a local agente de imobiliária.  
     Sandrina Leonardo: a bright energy beneath her sultry and exotic looks; passionate and knowledgeable about her country and profession; speaks English fluently while taking pleasure in equally teasing, and teaching, Dean and Sam when it comes to their weak Portuguese; and between striking beauty and charm has both brothers contemplating a brief excursion into softer, curvier territory.  
     Dean thinks she's hot for them, Sam more inclined to believe she's pulling out all the stops for the commission – they're not even bothering with anything under three-mil.

     Sandrina wants to make sure they see a vast array of options, plays tour guide as she drives them through the region. They average five to seven properties a day, lunch and dinner taken in whatever municipality they find themselves in.  
     They've got their short list, Dean keeping a detailed pros-and-cons list for each, but Sam recognizes when it's no longer necessary.  
     Located in Estoril, it's "Private Modern Villa" number seventeen? Nineteen maybe? Situated in the exclusive and secure residential community of Quinta Patino, it boasts all the similar luxury amenities of its successors, though none of them put the contented expression of bliss on his brother's face that Sam has the privilege to witness before him.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Sandrina's heels click against polished wood floors where she walks through the generous living room – long, dark tresses caught up in the breeze when she opens glass doors to the expansive and secluded backyard.

     They leave her there, Sam following Dean up the grand open staircase – cool metal of the chrome banister under his hand, medium-gray wooden steps beneath his feet.

     Dean leads them into what must be the ridiculously spacious master, and out onto the attached balcony where they both take in the spectacular view.

     Sam doesn't hesitate to come up behind, chest pressing to Dean's back and arms wrapping around his waist. "You love it, don't you?" His lips brush against the shell of his brother's ear.

     "Do...do you feel it too? Or am I being stu-"

     "Not stupid," Sam negates, kisses the side of Dean's neck. "And not just you. Feels...right."

     "You two look good there – right," Sandrina offers from across the room, standing in the bedroom doorway.

     Sam isn't sure if she overheard them or not, doubts it though it doesn't matter. Touring the rest of the villa and grounds is merely a formality and all three of them know it.

     Sandrina assures Sam his full-price offer – 4.6 million, cash – will garner them a quick closing – quick meaning one to two months rather than the typical three to six.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Despite knowing they already have her card, when she hands them the keys five weeks later, she slips them another – personal number on the back, sealed with a burgundy-hued kiss

.

_**~ S &D ~** _

 

     Though Dean and Sam plan to take their time decorating, they'd scheduled a delivery of staple furnishings for the day after closing and the van arrives not long after them – their own personals belongings in tow, including Dean's mysterious _locked_ antique trunk.

     The movers finished; largest bed they could find assembled and made-up with new freshly laundered linens; luggage unpacked – sans trunk; and gleaming, gourmet kitchen devoid of anything edible, they head out for an afternoon of shopping.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     "Sam," Dean calls, wonders where his brother disappeared to as he finishes loading the dishwasher. Drying his hands and turning off the kitchen light, he heads out into the living room and hollers out again, "Sammy!"

     "Up here. Bedroom."

     Dean takes the stairs, grins at the sight that greets him when he reaches their master. His trunk sits perfectly centered at the end of the bed, a chilling bottle of Portuguese Espumante with two glasses, and Sam, perched atop – his brother wearing nothing but sleep pants and a cocky grin, keys from Dean's nightstand drawer dangling from a swaying finger.  
     Much to Dean's chagrin (while the language may have been foreign, the mocking was universal), Portuguese Customs is privy to the contents. Sam, however, still is not.

     "You promised, soon as we were in our own place."

     Dean leans casually against the bedroom door frame, arms crossed over his chest – comfortable, no defensiveness – and bare feet at the ankle. He tips his head in assent, mirth crinkling the corners of green eyes holding a hint of hunger. "Go ahead, knock yourself out."

     Sam barely restrains himself long enough to set aside the chilling bottle and glasses before he's squatting in front of the trunk, inserting and turning the key, and throwing open the lid.  
     The top compartment is inset and snapped closed, almost like a huge envelope. Sam pops the snaps and opens the flaps to discover an array of old concert t-shirts – neatly folded and stacked twelve-inches deep. He's smiling, though his brother can't see him, rifles through and pulls out a well-worn tee and holds it up. Bon Jovi, Slippery When Wet, circa 1986. Sam barks a laugh, folds it up and replaces it.  
     Closing up the compartment and lifting it out, Sam gapes at the items stored beneath as he sets it aside. Head slowly craning around, he shoots a sly look of surprise over his shoulder. "Really?"

     Dean, simply shrugs.

     Sam turns back and reaches inside, pulls out a sole copy of Busty Asian Beauties though his attention's immediately drawn to the collection of Handjobs beneath – that is until he spots the beer-can-thick, foot-long dildo.

     The entire bottom compartment of the trunk is filled with pornography, sex toys (all individually stored in clear, Ziploc bags), and other assorted _risque_ paraphernalia.

     Sam shifts though it, not even recognizing certain items – others being mentally filed away for... _later_. When he comes to a small chest, a dimpled smile on his face at the pirate-esque appearance, Sam balances it on the inner lip of the trunk's lid and turns to Dean.

     A brief negating shake of his head – though his eyes roll dramatically – he motions for Sam to continue.

     Sam undoes the latch – despite a keyhole it isn't locked. He opens it slowly, balking when the contents come into view. He's rarely at a loss for words, and still it takes him a minute. "Um, not even sure what the fuck these are, but pretty sure your kink level just broke a Richter scale somewhere."

     Dean snorts, amused...and utterly shameless. Not the faintest tinge of scarlet to his smirking, stubbled cheeks.

     "Do you?"

     "Seriously?"

     "Well, I mean, it is your toy box." Sam watches Dean subtly shift, can see the defensiveness creeping in.

     "Yeah, Sam, you caught me. Total closet bottom...but only for dragon dick and werewolf cock."

     "Holy shit! That's what-" The swiftly darkening crimson flush spreading from Dean's open shirt collar and up and out to the tips of his ears – not shame, but anger – has Sam slamming his mouth shut. He drops to his knees from his crouch, turns to face Dean fully, and kneels there, submissive, an overt show of contrition until now he's made for fucking no one. "Not judging or trying to humiliate you, swear. Think I just... Seen and heard a lot, not much catches me off guard. And, as to my question, I didn't think... Meant had you ever used them _on_ anyone?"

     Hand rubbing back through disheveled hair, Dean visibly deflates. Motions for Sam to stand as he walks over, fingers stroking the fantastical red and black ombré phallus. "Not my type, but this little Twink who damn near literally attached himself to me in some dance club I was at. High on fuck knows what, promised me he was up for anything. Was still around at closing, eager, so I brought him home. Gave him a safeword, tied him up, worked him over for hours. Took Drake here like he was born to it."

     "Damn."

     "Yeah. So, uh, you ever?" Dean asks.

     Sam shakes his head, turns back to the collection. "Never trusted anyone enough to...experiment."

     Dean steps up behind and molds himself to Sam's back, hands coming around with fingers splaying wide and possessive across his stomach and chest. "No?"

     Sam leans into the strong and solid, warm weight. Grinds his ass against his brother's already full erection – growls at the promise there. "Fuck, Dean."

     "Oh, I plan on it."

_**~ ~ ~** _

     They spend a good twenty minutes perusing Dean's collection, Sam openly asking the occasional question – and trying not to blush at a few of the answers. He eventually sets a couple of items on the bed, the latter getting a raised eyebrow. "Is this... Do you mind?"

     Dean picks up the deep garnet cock sheath, thumb tracing over the veins and bulbous knot. "Actually, kinda perfect."

     "How so?"

     "Never had a chance to use this one."

     Obviously Sam had realized Dean liked to share his toys with the other boys he invited to his sandbox – so to speak. And with it equally obvious he's kept those toys meticulously clean and cared for, Sam wasn't bothered. Yet there's a certain thrill there, having chosen one they'll be breaking in together.  
     Sam hands Dean the champagne flutes, his fingers working to uncork the Colinas de São Lourenço Reserve Brut Rosé Sparkling. "Guess the house isn't the only thing we'll be celebrating the christening of."

     Dean's at the ready with the stemware when the cork pops, though Sam opts to catch the initial gush of bubbly liquid straight from the source. More of it down his bare chest than into his mouth and Dean takes advantage, steps in close and bends forward to lap at the shimmery, salmon-hued cascade. A lone trickle making its way down – into – and passed Sam's navel, Dean captures it. Broad tongue flat against the trail of Sam's hair, Dean swipes upward, pauses to suck out the small pool of sparkling wine in his navel, and continues up and over where he captures a peaked nipple between his lips.

     Sam hisses at the contact, then with little forethought proceeds to tilt the bottle… … …

     Champagne flutes heedlessly thrown across the room – harsh crash followed by the tinkle of glass hitting the floor – Dean grabs his brother by the hips as he greedily suckles and slurps. He's going to leave marks. Fingerprint bruises over sharp hipbones, and angry, purple-hued blossoms adorning sculpted pecs.

     Taking a long pull from the bottle, Sam sets it aside, lets himself be pushed back onto the bed where he's promptly stripped of his sleep pants. He watches Dean crawl across the mattress – predatory, up between his thighs – and shivers at the press of those _fucking lips_ to the tip of his cock.  
     Dean's still fully clothed when he sucks Sam down, and there's a certain illicit thrill at the complete contrast to their states of dress – the unexpected turn-on aiding in Dean's apparent quest to swiftly get Sam off. "Dean, shit, you gotta stop I'm gonna-"

     Pulling off with a slick _pop_ , Dean cuts off Sam's protest, "Take it while you can. Not gonna cum again 'til you're begging me to let you."

     Swiftly taken back in to the root, Sam shoots down Dean's throat at the mere thought.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     Dean's immediately up on his knees, shirt stripped off and discarded though he leaves his jeans. The rich mahogany cuffs he grabs, the ones Sam had picked, are soft to his touch. Nearly as soft as the inside of the wrists being offered up to him. "You sure?" he asks, cock twitching at Sam's nod.  
     He straps on the supple leather, won't bite into Sam's flesh when tugging against them – and his brother _will_ tug against them.

     "So how do you-"

     "Hands and knees. Or, well, knees." Dean can't keep the lascivious mirth from his voice – or his smile, watching as Sam knee-walks to the head of their bed.

     Distressed wood and intricate fret-work of the Morocco headboard directly in front of him, Sam traces the pattern, lets his fingertips slip through the open spaces. "And now I get it, your adamance against a solid headboard. You were so sure I'd..."

     Dean comes up beside Sam, kisses the round of his shoulder. "No. Hoped, but... Figured you'd at least be on-board with tying me up, if nothing else."

     Sam swiftly turns his head at that, surprised. "You..."

     Snorting a laugh, Dean's face scrunches up as he nods fervently. "Oh yeah. Prefer hemp rope myself, though not much chance to indulge over the years – not many guys I've trusted enough. But with you," Dean takes hold of Sam's wrists, works on binding him as he continues, "don't even know, Sammy, the thought of you tying me down, edging me for hours, maybe even... Always been curious about sounding. Then having you ride me – hands around my throat, rope biting into my skin. Fuck yeah."  
     By the time Dean finishes speaking, he has Sam secured – wrist cuffs hooked together and tethered to the headboard, metal parts designed to rotate should he want to turn him from his knees to his back. Sam, for his part, is fully hard...and leaking. Dean can't resist, leaning down and taking just the tip of his brother's cock between his lips and suckling – holding Sam steady when he bucks forward with a shout.  
     "Makin' a mess there, Sammy." Dean rises back up, tongue slowly and deliberately gliding over his lips. "Was it something I said?"

     "Asshole." Sam's shaking his head and chuckling, welcomes his brother's mouth against his when Dean leans in to let him lick inside and taste himself.

     "Speaking of assholes," Dean mumbles as he pries away from Sam's lips. "Widen your knees. Then lean forward and arch your back, let your wrists take your weight. Want your head and chest to the bed, ass in the air." An artist working with clay, molding and bending something to their will to create a work of art, Dean wonders if they get the same heady rush he is – Sam malleable to his direction and being contorted into a flesh and blood display of carnal beauty.  
     It's like silk against his fingers as he cards them through generous chestnut waves – a change in texture when Dean splays his palm against the smooth, warm, muscled expanse of Sam's back. Middle finger centered on his spine as he glides along the gorgeous bow of bone and muscle and skin, Dean offers the deserving praise, "So fucking beautiful, Sammy."  
     His target reached, Dean doesn't hesitate to tightly grip the globes of Sam's ass, kneading the flesh before finally spreading him open with a gravelly hum of appreciation.  
     Dean lucked out with Sam. With as much as he loves eating out a guy's ass, there have been those occasional few who didn't care for it – some seeming bored while others outright refused the specific attention. As he'd never pressure anyone, considering himself an _analingus enthusiast_ it would have proven a great loss of pleasure for Dean had Sam not been so receptive to the act.  
     They've gladly lost countless hours to this, Dean licking-kissing-coaxing Sam's hole until it relaxes and opens to his seeking tongue. They've done this – and only this – until they've cum. Not tonight though. No, Sam will be cuming on Dean's sheathed cock...eventually. For now it's muscle vs. muscle: Dean's thick and cunning tongue against Sam's conflicted sphincter – shy and resistant one moment, lax and welcoming the next. Dean relishes the war, the reflexive constriction against his tongue – futile effort to expel him and bar his reentry – before it relents to his persistence and allows him to delve as deeply as anatomy permits.  
     The sounds Sam makes – light moans of contentment, growls of _fuck that's good_ , yips of surprise, _too much-too good-I could fucking die like this_ keens, and _you fucking killed me_ screams or hoarse cries – and the motion of his hips – gentle rolls, to desperate grinding, to slamming back to fuck himself on a stiffened tongue – are Dean's continuous assenting guides.  
     Things at a lull – kitten licks and teasing twirls and thrusts lending to soft little "ahh" sounds, and an easy cadence of hips – Dean kicks it up a notch with the pressure of his thumb against Sam's lower taint.

     "Ohhh, fuck, Dean."

     "Feels good, doesn't it." Dean confirms, teeth then grazing against the swell of Sam's right asscheek. He presses harder against the tender area.

     "Dean!"

     The exclamation is taken as the warning intended, Dean easing off- that is until he spots the half-full bottle of espumante. Reaching for it with his free hand, his thumb takes up stroking the sensitive spot on Sam's body with increasing pressure… … …

     "Shit, Dean, I'm gonna-"

     … … …before he gingerly streams the fizzy contents down Sam's crack.

     "Ohfuckcold!"

     Dean, of course, chuckles...and promptly leans down to lap the cool, rose-colored liquid from his brother's ass.  
     When all taste of the sweet wine is gone, he pours out more – a steady, light trickle down the cleft where Dean slurps it up from against Sam's hole.

     "So fucking wrong," Sam groans, though he's pulling hard against his restraints in attempt to wiggle even further back into the fluctuating cool and heat.

     Despite already knowing the answer, Dean pauses, asks, "Want me to stop?"

     "Hell no!"

     Dean laughs again. "Thought not. Now push out."

     Sam does, circle of pink and rosy insides blossoming out just the slightest bit.

     It's not even close to a prolapse, barely even a baby _rosebud_ , yet it's enough to have Dean glad he left his jeans on. Is exactly why he did, needing the constriction of denim to keep him in check.  
     Drawn in, he latches his mouth around the sensitive tissue and sucks, tongue prodding, before he releases suction enough to the allow the contents of the tipped bottle to flow between. While tempting, Dean refrains from upending the bottle directly in Sam's ass. Kink is one thing – even the extreme-taboo-kink of, oh, say, fucking his own _brother_ (which Dean can't deny getting an added thrill from). The potential alcohol poisoning of that baby brother, however, is another thing entirely.  
     Still, when the final drops are lapped from Sam's rim, Dean is left with the visual... Tentatively, he rubs the lip of the bottle over his brother's puffy hole.

     At the foreign touch, Sam flinches, not violently but it's there. "Dean?"

     "Don't worry, not gonna..."

     There's a deep inhale of breath before Sam speaks, "Lots of lube. And...and not-"

     "Sam, seriously, you don't-"

     "Not all the way."

     There wasn't even a question, not exactly, though now that permission's been given and the out declined, Dean can't not take advantage – which is probably exactly what it is. He'll make it good though. So fucking good. "Swear, Sammy, I won't. Just the neck, maybe a hint more. And if you want me to stop say the word and it's over."

     "Trust you, Dean. Only person I ever have but... Anyway, know you wouldn't do it if you didn't think I'd enjoy it too so, yeah."

     "Fuck, Sammy." Dean's kissing every inch of his brother he can reach – plants his lips against his damn elbow even! – as he makes his way to the head of the bed. Fingers threaded through his hair, he pulls Sam up until he can reach his mouth and practically devours him.

     Sam returns the attention with equal fervor, despite his awkward position. Utters, "Love you," on a breathy gasp.

     It's only the second time they've put the sentiment into words with a verbal exchange and Dean pauses, locks his eyes with Sam's – forehead-to-forehead – and gives the moment the proper reverence it's due. "Love you too," is muttered in return against his lips before Dean forces himself to pull back.  
     They're both already riding a fine white-hot line of exquisite need, and if Dean's going to unexpectedly take them on the scenic route, he damn well better speed the trip up at least.  
     Guiding Sam to reassume his prone position, Dean goes for the lube in the nightstand and makes his way back down the mattress for the wine bottle. The bottle he intends to fuck his baby brother with...and _ohfuckthat'sdirty_.  
     He's a man who owns a dragon phallus. A man who already intended to fuck his own _brother_ while wearing an animalistic sheath – complete with a _knot_. Yet there's something about it, using some random object most certainly never meant to invade a man's body while cuffed to a bed.  
     Bare chest, bare feet, jeans still on though he's soaked a wet patch through where his cock strains against the denim, Dean kneels there, lube in hand, and stares at his brother's upturned ass on offer to his salacious proclivities.

     "Enjoying the view?"

     Dean startles, snorts a laugh. Recognizes the light amusement of Sam's tone – as well the hard, desperate edge. "Indeed I am, Sammy. Now breathe."  
     Heedless of the bedspread, Dean's eyes are more focused on Sam's rib cage – steady motion with each deep and methodic inhale and exhale – than they are on the lube he's drizzling over his index fingers. He's making a mess, about to make more of one, and the only fucks he has to give are the ones he plans to give Sam.  
     Sam's furled entrance is a bit red, a touch swollen, and affably yielding to the pressure of Dean's fingers – the first hungrily swallowed up, with little resistance given to the second before it's sinking in as well. He'd smile if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied – head slightly tilted back, and vial of organic lube between his teeth that they'd picked-up (and later ordered more of) during a week in London. Fingers giving a few cursory pumps – in and out, right then left – Dean tugs against Sam's rim and tilts his head forward, watches the stream of slippery liquid flow into his brother as he squirms against the odd sensation.  
     Satisfied, Dean eases his fingers free and takes the vial from his mouth. "Feel strange?"

     "Yeah. Kinda." Sam wiggles his hips for emphasis. "Almost, tickled a little, sort of."

     "Well, brace yourself, about to get weirder and pretty sure it ain't gonna tickle." Dean can't help but to groan when Sam's response is to widen his legs all the further, his back swaying into a deeper curve as he presses his chest more firmly against the mattress.  
     The bottle of Colinas de São Lourenço Reserve Brut Rosé Sparkling is nothing fancy: dark, nearly black, green-tinted glass; metallic sunburst medallion on the label; dusky-pink foil around the top of the neck, which Dean is removing the frayed edges of until all that remains is smoothly adhered to the glass. It's slippery in his hands as he coats it in lube, shimmers where it catches and reflects the light from the bedside lamps, and looks positively obscene when Dean places the unyielding lip against Sam's rim.  
     Easy pressure, just the tip pops inside and Sam releases a long, deep moan – Dean sucking in a hiss around his own front teeth sinking into his lower lip.  
     "Holy fuckin' hell, Sammy." None-too-gently the heel of Dean's palm presses against his crotch, barely staving off his orgasm while he curses a blue-streak under his breath. He can't tear his gaze away from where Sam's ass is suckling at the opening of the bottle like a small hungry mouth, and the sight alone is about to make him cum.  
     Dean slams his eyes shut. Has to, just for a moment. Deep breaths and long exhales as he lets every mundane and anti-sexy thought he can summon pass through his mind.

     "Fuck, Dean, come on!"

     And that's it, screw it. If he cums, he cums. Chances are, the sheer level of 'Turned-On' he's reached will give him the refractory period of a damned teenager anyway. No way he can ignore his brother's growly, needy, desperate demand regardless.  
     "Sorry, baby, I got ya. Just kinda meltin' my brain here, Sammy. You've got no fucking idea..." Dean pushes the bottle in, a fraction, lets it slip back out until only the lip is holding Sam's rim open. "My baby brother, on his knees for me – hands bound."

     The entire length of the tapered neck disappears inside Sam's body – heavy wooden headboard tugged forward and then released to slam against the wall.  
     "Nuhhh!"

     "Not even gonna tell me to stop, are you, Sammy? Lovin' it just as much as I am." Dean's fucking the neck of the bottle – steady rhythm, the occasional jiggle or twist – into his brother's ass, savoring the near opus of broken and throaty sounds he's rewarded for it.  
     He pushes in a little further, a modicum more, stops when a shaky keening sound alerts Dean to Sam's limit. He backs off, only kisses the brink on every third or fourth thrust – won't go beyond that.  
     "So fuckin' hot, letting me do this – opening up and taking it for me. And not gonna put it in with the recycling later. Not even gonna store it in the trunk. No. Nice bottle like this, I'll clean it up and set it out somewhere in the living room. Keep fresh flowers in it. And when we have friends over, throw parties, I'll tell everyone how it was the bottle we used to celebrate our first night in our new home. And while they all laugh, and the ladies comment on how romantic it is while they smell the flowers, you and me...we'll know. Know where it's been, _how_ we used it. Remember how I fucked you with it while you begged for me to let you cum."

     "Dean!" Sam roars, desperate frustration as he bucks against his brother's sudden grip to the base of his cock. He swiftly turns to sobbing pleas, "You gotta... Dean, I can't... Fuck-fuck- _fuck_ , please, De."

     It's the first time Sam's ever shortened Dean's name – the opposite of Dean lengthening Sam's, though the same familial and affectionate intent – and it doesn't go unnoticed.  
     "Shh, easy, baby. Gonna give you what you need, Sammy." Dean keeps a firm hold around Sam's cock as he gently eases the green glass from his gaping hole, thinks about how _next time_ he's totally working him open to take the full breadth of the bottle.

     "Dean?"

     "Yeah?"

     "You knowing that whole begging thing you said you were going to make me do before I could cum?"

     Dean's already chuckling. "Mmhmm?"

     "I am so there."

     The chuckling turns to full on laughter. "I hear ya, Sammy. Right there with you." Dean's already undoing and shedding his jeans and briefs. "Almost there, promise. Need you to relax, give me a couple minutes here, and it'll be so worth it. Both gonna blow like a couple of fuckin' geysers when I get us there."  
     He presses a kiss to Sam's tailbone – a show of love and comfort Dean's taken to when in the vicinity of the hard little nub – and turns his attention to the items he'll require for the evening's final act.  
     There's an actual science to putting on a cock sheath, at least in Dean's experience. For starters, top quality materials matter. The type of lube and how much to use just as important. No lube means a nice snug fit around his own cock, but trying to work inside the sheath can be painful. Too much lube, he ends up fucking the sheath rather than his partner. And he definitely wants to fuck Sam.  
     A sparse few drops from the tube of lubricant of his preference along his throbbing shaft, and Dean slicks himself up before grabbing the ribbed, veined, and knotted sheath. Through trial and error – and one unpleasantly memorable incident involving temporary nerve damage he'd rather never repeat – Dean gently works the dark garnet metallic silicone into place using his own perfected method.  
     The first time he's had it on, he's glad he paid extra for the customized fit. It's snug against the base of his cock, while the opening at the tip sits precisely behind the corona. He takes a couple minutes to jack himself, lets the friction dry out the lube until the slip-and-slide is gone and the silicone hugs his girth – coats the outside with the organic lube when he's good to go.  
     "Ready, Sammy?" Dean positions himself behind his brother, tip of his cock kissing Sam's puffy, puckered entrance.

     "'Ready'? You have no clue how close I am to pulling against this headboard until the wood splits, throwing you down, and riding you until I shoot my brain out my dick, do you?"

     "I'll take that as a yes." One powerful yet controlled roll of his hips and Dean is inside of Sam – a hint of the sheath's knot passed his rim.

     The entire bed shakes with the force Sam uses to pull against his restraints. "Motherfuckin'...!"

     It's too good of an opening. Withdrawing just shy of fully, Dean drapes himself along Sam's back and brushes his lips against the shell of his brother's ear. "Pretty sure you meant _brotherfuckin'_." He slams forward, feels the split-second of resistance against the veined and bulbous faux-knot – hand reaching around to firmly squeeze below the head of Sam's cock – before he bottoms out.

     A sharp _crack_ of splintering wood echos through the room.

     Body quivering and covered in a sheen of sweat, tears streaming down his deeply flushed face, Sam's torso is off the bed – upright and back-to-chest with Dean as much as the barely holding restraints will allow – as he rides out the explosion of endorphins from his dry-orgasm.

     "That's it, baby, let it happen," Dean whispers against the sweat-salty skin along Sam's neck, his brother's head lolling back against his shoulder.

     "Fuck, De, this is..."

     "Welcome to multiple-orgasms. Good stuff, though-"

     Sam cuts Dean off, words slurred by erotic intoxication, "So help me, if that sentence doesn't continue with 'making you cum like a porn star in the next three minutes is better,' I _will_ finish breaking the headboard apart."

     It may no longer be blatant, yet it's still begging – tactic changed, heavily veiled as a threat wrought through with a current of desperation. Dean nuzzles his nose along the soft crevice behind Sam's ear, recognizes that they're at the pinnacle as he mutters against spongy flesh, "How about I make it under two?"  
     Releasing the pressure on his cock, Sam's erection is barely flagging – merely a few firm strokes and he's back where Dean wants him, primed and ready.  
     "Gonna make you cum, baby."

     That, along with Dean's fingers taking a firm, claiming hold of his hips, has Sam leaning forward and his own fingers wrapping through the fret-work of the headboard as he braces himself – body still jolting forward when Dean drives into him, over-and-over, in a punishing rhythm.

     Sam is always stunning, but like this – wild mane of hair drenched through with sweat; head tossed back and cords of his neck straining; long line of his spine once again curved in a wanton bow; broken sobs tumbling over lush and reddened lips – he truly is a magnificent living sculpture of sensuality and eroticism.  
     Dean can't take it, his own deferred desire for release rushing forward on a crushing wave of emotion – _fuck_ he loves this man submitting to him, helluva cruel and messed-up road to get where they are but having this is _everything_ – and the need to _claim_...

     "Cum for me, Sammy."

     "Dean!" Sam cums with a roar – his brother's faux-knot adorned cock buried deep inside, marking and claiming him with Dean's own release.

_**~ ~ ~** _

     There's a cool night breeze coming from the open balcony doors, the gentle caress refreshing and welcome against still over-heated flesh.

     Dean's pressed up along his side, limbs draped possessively over his body and head pillowed against his chest – already succumbed to the pull of exhausted sleep Sam is swiftly drifting towards.  
     His fingers are lazily occupied where they stroke through short, dark-blonde spikes of hair as he savors a profound sense of both connection and contentment like he's never known.  
     Sam's life has always been wrong, since he was six-months-old. And sure, society would say it's still wrong – him and Dean, what they are to each other – but he can't bring himself to care. For the first time ever, Sam feels as if everything is right.  
     "Love you, De."


	9. Part Four - I'll Be the One To Protect You - Chapter Two

****

**Part Four**

**_I'll Be the One To Protect You_ **

**Chapter Two**

 

_**~x~ Five Months Later ~x~** _

 

 

 

     The French doors of the bedroom's villa open to a warm breeze, the sound of waves lapping along the Jamaican white sands – gentle rhythm juxtapose to the staggered and harsh releases of breath inside the room.

     Sam is riding Dean's cock. Sweat trails across the stark ridges of his clavicle to gather in the hollow between and trickle down – beading and rolling bottomward along his spine – and blunt nails rake over his brother's tanned chest beneath him.

     Dean's own fingers digging into Sam's hips, he likes to keep the imprints fresh – five small bruises each side like a brand, nearly always present.

     It's their second round this morning.

     The first had been lazy. Serene lovemaking under a golden sky. Private beach, an early swim in crystal blue waters, and Sam buoyant with long legs wrapped around Dean's waist. Upper body sprawled on the ocean's surface, Dean had rocked into him, easy, timed and aided by the cadence of the waves.

     Now, they're chasing their release. Frenzied, desperate fucking. Dean slamming upwards with enough force to dislodge his brother if not for his brutal grip, driving Sam down to take every inch.

     Sam shouts when he cums, head thrown back and cords and veins in his neck straining.

     Another minute of erratic thrusts and Dean follows, growls his own release, "Sammy!"

_**~ ~ ~** _

     A quick phone call, twenty minutes, and a courteous knock later, there's a feast before them – akee and saltfish, callaloo, bacon, fried plantains and breadfruit, and bammy – two laden trays brought right to their bed. Aromas of nutmeg and cinnamon greeting them first (morning coffee traded for Jamaican hot chocolate their first week there), the two of them tuck into the savory meal, ravenous from the morning's _activities_.

     The food alone had them joking about more frequent visits – the culture, friendly and welcoming people, and stunning beaches were what ultimately led to an extended week stay to house hunt for a second home.

     Plates empty and stomachs full, Sam reaches for his laptop on the nightstand, accidentally knocking over the framed photo displayed there. Laptop set aside, he picks up the frame, holds it with care and takes in the image. A mere ten days ago, the two of them in matching white attire: Sam in a light-weight v-neck sweater, Dean a button-down with sleeves rolled up and top few buttons undone; linen pants rolled up above their ankles; feet bare – toes curling in the warm sand. A woman in a flowing, floral-print, lavender dress stands between them – Bobby and Missouri both looking on.

     Dean rests his chin on Sam's shoulder, eyes fixed on the photograph and lips against his brother's jaw. "Any second thoughts?"

     Sam _Winchester_ turns his head, captures Dean's lips in reply.

     Planning the rest of their honeymoon travel itinerary can wait...round three it is.

 

 

 

_**~x~ Counting Bodies Like Sheep ~x~** _

 

_**** _


End file.
